Two Hundred Twenty-Nine

What do they come to? You mean, when do they come to? There’s nothing letting the light in. The dark room has your name on it. Things develop in the dark. Pictures come out of it to the slightly less dark. Eyes lose their red eye. Ah, yes. Look into the red, my love. Let the red rise, full of head, and spill over. Blink. Remember to breathe. Put that out there. The first breath of winter. The cloud doesn’t know its linings. Are they green? Growing and leaved, fruited and fresh. Are they black? Samuel. Listen to the green