Red is the color of blood, and I will seek it: I have sought it in the grass. It is the color of steep sun seen through eyelids. … Your eyes, with the late sun in them, Are like blue pools dazzled with yellow petals. This pale green suits them well. Here is your finger, with an emerald on it: The one I gave you. I say these things politely- But what I think beneath them, who can tell? For I think of you, crumpled against a whiteness; Flayed and torn, with a dulled face. I think of you, writing, a thing of scarlet, And myself, rising red from that embrace.
… This is the time of day for recollections, For sentimental regrets, oblique allusions, Rose-leaves, shrivelled in a musty jar. Scatter them to the wind! There are tempests coming. It is dark, with a windy star.
… For I think of you, flung down brutal darkness; Crushed and red, with pale face. I think of you, with your hair disordered and dripping. And myself, rising red from that embrace.
excerpts from “Red Is the Color of Blood” Conrad Aiken