Lit by red light, shining by rain
on the lain of the cold or the frozen skied night.
Storm pounding ground, the worn crackt 'crete
where feet slap rain, where the red light warps.

He finds in the side of his storm blurred eye
silhoutte of a short, white, bored shitless whore.
High heels scrape scars across concrete pores,
forming swirly streams in pavement puddles.

 Being black cloakt, he (cool) strolls over to where
she groans, whining in the tone of all girls that
she could use a match. He has one. So then
darkness is broken by a swoop spark parkt
at the end of her cigarette, crossing her eyes.

 Focussed on flame, she's cute, and bright
by the light. She's pimpled and dimply.
Her pretty pink dripping down clown rogue
made up eyes cry mascara.

Not far into the close kept mid city where he swings
his arm across the open door, while grinning
she steps clandestinely in an atmosphere of green
halls, soft table cloths, and a wall of candlelit chandeliers in rows.
They sit cryptic surrounded by a rain dripped, melting window.

"So." Cigarettes are propped on rain drenched lips.
They gulp down wine. He asks her name and she sings
with schoolgirl eyes beneath her lids, becomes
surprisingly, burgeoningly womanly and burgundy,
glowing benignly and spring blossom kissed.
"Are you from the city?," and she is. "...and you?" Yes,
he is. Of cities they are made and are locked tight.

They talk. As chatter patters between twinkling fires
of elegant arms fingering shiny wine glasses
where flame play on rain ignites an eyelashes flicker,
lips purse, eyes search eyes and circle lids,
finding the color of eye,
reaching the pupil's depth,
and maybe sink in the pool of that red river's breadth.

Maybe sink in the pool of that red river’s breadth.
Maybe sink in the pool of that red river’s breadth.

Maybe deep in the drink of candlelight's death
a red river swells, a moon dog diminishes,
a hard rain descends then a cool rain drizzles
down a sweating wet window down a glistening mystery.

 Mike Sullivan, 1987-91.