I have just left the red

I have just left the red
center of a rose, paint buttery
smooth as a petal’s velvet cave,
studio full of the scent
of damar, turpentine and oil.
On the black table, Bing cherries in a white bowl.

Outside, I water the double begonia,
scarlet petals limp,
summer’s torch burning everything.
For three days, a hot wind
licking the brittle edges of leaves.
Grass burnished gold,
inextinguishable light
on this parched earth.

I am thinking of the wide blue wheel
and all that air,
that sliver of eternity
between me and the taut membrane of the trampoline
catapulting me bright as a child into the morning
I slipped free of gravity
bodiless, light as the swallows
flight all round me, all the shadows of clouds
white as the wings of angels
and I seeing them in the jade ribbon,
the river far below me.

The day is a handful of jewels.
Even the shock of carmine trucks,
chrome yellow hoses uncoiling from
fire engines exciting the day,
polished metal skins
and chrome shrill as a warning.

Think of it.
Eyes on heaven, arms flung wide
floating me upward into Brueghel’s blue,
fire rising beneath me.
As I leapt higher and higher
flames climbed from their cradle
of dry timber, tongues hungry
for the same mouthful of air.
Death always ready to burst forth,
and I oblivious
rising to the heart's spark
this sudden flickering
raising me up blind
but alive,! So alive.