A sour dream lifts me from bed br at 4 a.m. I rummage through the attic br looking for something I know not what br in the cluttered drawers of a dusty walnut br dresser I find a gray-and-white photograph. br On the back, a faded scrawl: 1946 br Despite the ripped and torn edges that br have blossomed into a fiendish ecru, br it could have been taken today. br br br Four men are standing beside a virgin br Buick. Sunlight sparkles from the chrome, br reflected in their faces and in their chests, br swollen as a drunken rooster's. br They are matadors after the kill, disguised br by suits of Puritan gray and feathered fedoras. br They are strange and strong, daring and defiant, br powerful with pride. br br br The arir is electric, filled with tiny golden stars. br This magical chariot has erased their history. br They are no longer poor farmers. br They are no longer mortal. br Olympus never knew such gods.