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.