the calendar is marked with dots and slashes –
blue, yellow, green –
for good days, for pills taken and
exercises, experiments and
scribbled-in a delicate hand-
the titles of novels by dead men.
and the calendar is cursed with crimson cruciform –
red, red, red, red,
thickly splashing through the walls, a
low tide that strands all ships. Red for the bottle,
red for the pipe, red for thoughts that repeat and
repeat and repeat to their nightmare logic;
the months are splashed with red, yes,
but blue, yellow, and green make their homes in these days
as well. Perhaps not today.
But perhaps tomorrow.