I liked you best in red; your blush a sheer I could part and find, yes, not a window, but the night sky in a bowl which asked of me, drink with two hands. Harrow us, it begged in so’s, with the narrow of thy throat. And so the bight built I as a chapel of bitten, and the light announced in sheds this color pressed like lilac, like Bergerac, into the flesh of lips and hands. A looping treble, a triptych bleeding or just a party trick. This tasting or staining. This rubbing or painting. The finger and tongue. These brief paths of know wear all the undone.