by Reid Mitchell
I buy drab clothes for travel – courier, valet, dogsbody, temp, a man so nearly anonymous he must show his passport to cross an empty street on a windy day –
chestnut, gray, olive, blues as muted as old denim hanging on a line. I remain prepared always to sleep in the antechamber of your candlelit room which is the brightest, silkest, and most deeply red.
At least, as I pack your trunks and mine, for America you whisper again of the brightest, silkest, fresh-smeared red.
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