Sally Martin Ii

The bags that sag under glassy eyes are purple black. His face is downward drawn with pencil neck and bow bent back. Devoid of chest a mass of thinly muscled bone and flesh. He strokes Mary Martin at a soirée by the garden wall. She sings lilacs to hummingbirds as rainbows rise and fall. She whispers wonders wrapped in riddles wove in layers, her looks, her touch, her smell, at a soirée by the garden wall.