On her side of the fence, the grass turns wintergreen
Grave gray gently damping the rude color of spring
Ash and aspen flank her plainly painted porch
Pale, slender flesh crossed by old lovers’ knives
Too long ago to talk about
And why would you care?
Another evening on the lawn, watching smoke eat fire
Gold light turns back to tin, red wine turns black
And the clouds wake up to smother you to sleep
In an ocean of unfalling rain
What are you dreaming about?
Doesn’t matter, no one’s there.