Red Star

red star’s cottage garden,
the spring morning system,
I hear always a
common voice despite resident
swan’s bells arriving,
their death melody, for they are
& blood red only—
the colour steam through
fields of hyacinth seems, the
colour of pleasure, and
are we travelling even now?
that sad planet’s
ocean, time remembering
time, and again, what growing
open ceremony of the sun
begins as vapour, or as its frigid
parhelion, “our mock
wedding took our core from us,”
red the moon’s sudden fantasy,
red the spring’s captive dream,
red the cottage, red the meadow,
red the star.

Thanks for checking out my poem.

Did I tell you I wrote a novel? You can read it here for free, or get it for your e-reader on iBooks, Amazon or Kobo. Or you can just say you read the book, and donate five bucks down below. Go on.

Gabriel Muoio


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