Little cow of god, the wattage of your red reverberates the earth, and spots of onyx nestle on its lacquer like fixed stars. Bravissima! You are red’s least loud-mouthed ambassador, paradise’s miniscule half-apple mobilized by a half-dozen legs, and under the split-open dome of you: gold-leaf wings, folded over esoterically, like dress patterns, whose thinness whispers to the near- devotional care called for to pin them out properly. Meanwhile,...