Struck by lightning, red fire.
Or just a July sunset, or perhaps a
Sunset on Krakatoa, after the blast.
A tree in early October, standing out
Among yellow ones, the green gone.
Red burning, attract a bull, colorblind,
To stride into the flames, attack the heart.
A '66 Mustang convertible
In the August sun, that kind of red,
Two women in front, cruising,
Meet a half-baked motorcyclist
Burned red in the sun, red arms,
Red face, modern Indian gypsy,
Hair burned flaxen, long-lived fire.
A heat that lasts long after sunset,
Half-way through the night, still burning
Unquenched by two gallons of beer.
Two divided by three, doesn't fit,
Works though, he thinks so. Tired
Fighting May flames in August.
June is the marriage month,
Right after papa finds out, right?
But August, bad luck, no September brides.
August heat bides its time, escapes,
Though you need someone
Cold October nights, not like summer.
Too hot in June. Don't share covers.
Go out and look. Live on the grass.
Wake up sticky with dew, crawl off nights.
Timing's wrong. Must be too easy.
Too easy to crawl off in August.
Red convertibles are black streaks at night,
At four a.m., half the country to cross.
Red fire. Goes with yellow, lightning,
Running with leaky ragtop roof.
