i will never be spent
in composing your elegy,
your elegy of red.
if i were to embroider your face
i would embroider in red silks,
on cloth dyed red.
i would dye the cloth myself
with a long hair brush of my hair,
with handprints of red,
with red i had made myself,
and when i had finished sewing you
i would undo
every
last
stitch