At home, the bells were a high light-yellow
with no silver or gray just buttercup or sugar-and-lemon.
Here bodies are lined in blue against the sea.
And where red is red there is only red.
I have to be blue to bathe in the sea.
Red, to live in the red room with red air
to rest my head, red cheek down, on the red table.
Above, it was so green: brown, yellow, white, green.
My longing for red furious, sexual.
There things were alive but nothing moved.
Now I live near the sea in a place which has no blue and is not the sea.
Gulls flock, leeward then tangent
and pigeons bully them off the ground.
Hardly alive, almost blind-a hot geometry casts off
every color of the world. Everything moves, nothing alive.
In the red room there is a sky which is painted over in red
but is not red and was, once, the sky.
This is how I live.
A red table in a red room filled with air.
A woman, edged in blue, bathing in the blue sea.
The surface like the pale, scaled skin of fish
far below or above or away—