John Dillinger, the woman in red

>..... >... Cold, described pallid, as matter of factly as the patter of feet, antelope along the swingset sway all tatters, boots and shirts, still tagged and hung to bleed dry sun in the fresh Chicago air, hung to dry and bleed, in a wide brimmed hat blacked out to the chandelier, behind, hours before lit with barflys and antidotes in swimming glasses watching, through its peering whither Six Eyed contempt, tempered only by millimeters, made holy through prayer through, rumble, begs, and misty through wood through whittled, seeping, swim skin, in wooden grain. Today it rained Red sauce in your eyes, A reawakening To years ago the smell of new ozone as the heavens opened, spilling us common dice in the mud. My wet eyes hung down to your ankles, until we fell, Red sauce laughter raining on the bed bugs between us. Your lungs filled with branches of sight until you breathed color at the mouth. Red sauce is, when released in drifts, the love in us asleep. We peak, clotting storm drains.