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In the middle of a highway. In the rain, I pray. For a pair of merciful headlights. To bless me with their strength. There is only darkness staring back at me. It has no interest in the pathetic theatrics. Of this scene I have chosen. For my dance to die. It waits for me to die. But it seems I failed at that scene too. And now I can only swallow. Drop after drop of serial sky tears. For my sins that stay. On my knees in a solarium.

The rain beat the lake, in rising shrapnel. A girl hid there under the rain shelter. The sun still refused to be coaxed out. Consequently there were no copies of beauty. The rain was now furiously beating the road. All through the evening the wind howled. And there was nothing that we could do. In this sort of rain nothing really happens. She did not die much. With a ten year old mind she could not have died much.

Tuxedoed for the formality of life. Respected because of your dress. You differ nothing from the thieving. Death-eating character of crows,. But the beauty of your vest belies. How long will we be fooled by. Away from all those chickens.

The Men of Autumn, Women of the Fall. I am obsessed with Civil War reenactments,. The heart they throw into each bloodless war. On each bloodless day beginning promptly at nine. Fear never plagues their history as. How accustomed they are to cannon. Roaring overhead every twenty minutes. On the dot from the top of every hour. Lovely unhardened women with soft hands,. Men with dirt carefully applied. Each in the same place on. The breast pocket of a shiny, buttoned jacket. There are no brothers here.