There's something red in love, in making love, in sex. "Making love." (?) That sounds like manufacturing.
But back to something red in love--there is. It could be vision or toe, tongue or nipple, or down there in crucial climes, our intemperate zones.
It could be a dream of a red pillow as vast as a mansion. It could be a sulfurous match-tip struck, afire, and introduced to tabak or to Santa Maria Juana.
It could be a question lined with red velvet. "Do you want to dance?" "Do you want me to . . .?" "Do you want to go swimming?--yes, yes, of course, nude."
It could be anything red in love. It could be anything--red in love. It could. Could be. Red. Red in love.