The Demon Lover

The attraction was in the script's charged air:
the path to the ruins, past the waterfall
and through the wind's incessant song.
The mastiff alongside, its bared teeth nicking flesh.
Like truth stepping out of a shiny black Benz,
he took her aside, unredeemed and unswerving
in his arrow straight course to perdition,
bolster against the sometimes blue
suffocating skies, potatoes to peel, weight of the German text.
Neither saw the rocks bristling far off in the bed
of the stream, the breakers boiling at their base, a future broken into
whirl and tumult, foam and noise.
Proposals in the dark alley, sunken bridal veil.
The real dark shores all the more inviting because.