Poem for any Red monsters (or their red sheep)

Retracing, slowing for another leg. Though simulation has never yet petrified us, turning us to metal poles, the blood is like a mote around the prison of the hand.

The same beat happening, again moon enmooned,
again blood emblooding, in the brain, the mouth, the pram, the sky.

Man is blue. Blue, blue blood, blue moon. Blue moon's sky, not the earth's until
blue, blue, blue,
you, you, you, become its mirror.

The rusted frame, the baker, the prickly pear, the ripple all you.
Until you grow so old you are ready, new terror, con(mplex)vex lover, bringing me a secret unity (with suffering?) that grows old
with you and thickens like an imipramine cake.

What is real becomes a metaphor with age & maybe crosses back again, hardens and breaks you open down.
To be ruby throated, to be caught by (to be) a bull with its horns in a headboard.
Tusk of gelded boar, tracing. When they start waltzing I’ll throw down my coins in the streets.

The gongs, glass candy, Ida No, other panes and blots.
Like water bags, warmed by the sun,
to lean under afterwards, cooled.