Drawn inside by the array of muted colors
that peculiar unyellow from the Far East, no
lemon or chrome but an enigmatic gold-beige
all printed in confusion with blurred figurings
crowded designs together in the window:
shirts skirts cloth
I touched a bedspread.
Then that smell of muskiness and sweet, of India
again around me–
I was in our room again
our safe warm room
with Indian spread
red curtains. . . .
Then the rest came back to me:
the red was you.