She smoked Pall Malls,
and blew them into the fractured shadows -
cast by the splintered, voided sunlight
that shone through dead lilacs.

The light that shone in
climaxed in the drops of water;
tossed through the ticking sprinkler.
The drops of water that clung to her,
and ran down her flesh like teardrops.

I'd never seen a sun, she said,
so penetrated and disenchanted -
as it fell behind the clouds;
that I mistook for mountains.

She told me stories,
about cold wind Michigan;
where Romulus & Remus are more
than chipped stone fragments;
story pots.

She drank with me,
from metal pie tins, filled with
warm beer; left out to kill
slugs, bugs, flies, and get kids
started.

She laid with me,
and well, it became one of those
dreams.

Through swollen eyes, I grasped
at the images that had slipped
from my head, and I laid as disenchanted
as the dead lilacs that framed the sun,
that clothed her in the grass.