life in red

he has poetry woven
into his beard
but it nips into the bones of my fingers
white and blue
the slow cold death of robert frost

i need him to walk around the corner
to discover pablo neruda sitting beside
the stonewalled fireplace
of an ancient village cafe
scribbling
the man living his life in red
embers jumping deliberately
onto his journal’s pages

i have no right to want this

besides

nature has no regard for these sorts of wishes