thomas January 2, 2001

Who dropped in careless haste
that drop of scarlet hue
and left before it dried
over the moist stretch?

See it mix and spread
as clouds of crimson
around the red
all over the blue

Who left the canvas
in such haste?

Night, I’m sure:
She can’t see hues anyway.
And she fled in dread of
Day’s rising masculinity.

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