Revision

Red Sea

You are full of magnets and pretty
crystals. You approach, wrapped in seven
different medications, none of which make
me like you. Your hair is purple. It used
to be red, and before that brown, I think.
I liked the red but right now it is purple. Hello.

Hello. Your body is an antique clock
with a smaller clock nested inside. I forget
how short you are when I'm not looking at you
and how you glide and jangle when you walk.
I cough and you vanish
in a mechanical clattering of speech bubbles.

Outside the buses are coming every thirty minutes
and the sky is the color of milk. I don't mind
walking. I think a bicycle is being stolen.
The phrase "as red as the sea" hijacks my train
of thought. When I get home I decide to write
a poem. Disappointingly, I am stuck thinking about your hair.