He speaks to her in sonnets– now,
written by Browning.
The edges of paper singed by moonlight.
He pulls a round container from his pocket,
dips his last bit of Skoal.
Words pour from his mouth,
flames from a menacing dragon
melting as they settle upon
and chafe the bottom of her smooth feet,
her eyes darkened like coal,
her mind dehydrated,
she walks quickly by the pink adobe house,
She reaches her grey Oldsmobile,
and closes its door,
the kind of thundering silence
that often foreshadows initial drops of salty rain,
the first to land softly on the dry sand
and run freely across its rigid surface.