Almost
There was a poem that my sleep wrote
down, the meaning of late afternoon:
a brown-eyed boy writing down prayers
in a café (or was that me, enrolled in signs
of the invisible?). (The leaves of him
so green, verdigrised with youth.) To wait for him
would be like drinking wind, buds bruised by
cold slant rain. (But how the matter of him
matters, skin kissed by a storm of poppies, white
light fingering pink clouds apart: shorn
of reference.) It's only flagrant spring
again, flaunting its new-found youth, harder than loss
or granite. Azure, jade, vermillion,
a smoke of lilies and I am gone . . .
Reginald Shepherd
April 10, 1963 – September 10, 2008
(via Tonya Foster)
Robin Reagler 
Very interested, crimson, like it there like fun doing