Cold glass clinks together,
grown fat with red wine and--
hands intertwine in the night
of a suburban morning.
The music and dance, chosen specifically to
endanger, and to mourn their passion is
followed by moonlight binoculars--
the wife watches from across
the barren road, unwatched like
Medusa in the shadows of a car.
She drinks a coffee; a stain upon
her white shirt. Hate bellows.
Deep breath--a kitchen knife in the
back seat. The house is silent--
wraiths writhing in the dark;
The wife is at the door and she
rings the bell. The wraiths
turn to stone.