The Bleeding Sky
There’s a line of flapping, red-starred flags,
they wag their rags, as dogs wag their tails,
when the master’s home;
and the summer wind taunts their linen
crease; then takes them on a merry jaunt,
a widow’s pooch, in heat.
And up above the red-devilled street, a
dipping, flipping, swift-filled, livid high;
counts flags, dogs and masters, sighing
swifts and bleeding sky.
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