Red

Abridging the narcissus, infringing the spirea,
thirsty for the 16th day, words stick in hat brims,
hang on saddlebags and ruffle sweaty girths,
hoping to be chosen for the transcontinental.

Write me. Write me.

Not a news story minus a source,
an editorial stacked in the wood shed,
burned. Un-read photo captions
and recipes mildew behind the skis.

Who will write, who will write.

Me.

Red patches on blackbird wings, a gold line between.