Three Red Things

the three red things are:

a red umbrella with a black lace trim
spoke-shattered it belongs to my mother,
does not match my abstract and faux
snaky blouson jacket,

Alfred Schütze’s The Enigma of Evil
a memento-mori from his old library,
its red cover is rain-glued-sodden.
I bind myself to a tree,

a shopping bag, berry-red
not much to say about it
is the third red thing.

And I am in the park,
moulded to the body of a tree

its roots are moving beneath my feet.
I am afraid it will tear up from the
soil’s hungry drinking as,

form crystallises

assumes its
 almost shape,

within the silica of
 this holding-skin,

beneath crystal swipe
 and tungsten-lunge

into the exact point
 and drain,

then seep
 from the vessel-encasement,
not sustainer.

Form crystallises
until
form becomes

 a stone dress

press-to
 drop-by-drop
raindrop-and-sinew
 the whole woman

not tamp-in
 onto the still-living-soil
a new shape

embed-in
 the bone and the
living-sinew-of
 the still-warm blood

slowly-so
and infinitely blue,
the milk-flow from crystallising breast,

material as silk-soft
(as) caul or veil
can be sweet as silk or rain or

blue,

rain sinews against and into
chalice of womb,
half-into the wall
and often not

still,
a lone, a bird night-sings and a

tremor of rain runs liquidly down the bodice and gather,
as gradual operation of hand-upon-hand, hand-on-stone
make a pleat, a stitch, a fraying thread, on bodice sequined
for silica plinthing.