He was mine through a country song,
she said, and I knew she meant the dance
in winter hay mostly covered in snow.

Heaving and hoeing in shadow
a harvest not innocent or wicked,
sort of alive and in flux, not like a bruise
but rather a soft flowing mercy.
Toiling atop a mound of pipe,
they make a merry windfall.

After looking at 39 pieces of art,
she felt like a giant rat,
but split down the middle.
Line-dancing through traps
a light switch became a totem.
The Masters are solid in the dark.

Afternoon is blue
with its pretend peopling,
juggernaut boots resting
after their testing
along the neighbor’s stone wall
(on the shadowy side).

Fuzzy lines mark possible veins
of reality versus extra-vivid surreality.
Only wind can tell the difference
between planes; nobody else cares.

Through a few branches,
the day fled
and a light clearly etched our steps-
me, forward
you, in reverse.
We danced in moonlight.

Music soldered his frayed nerves
building lofty towers
where coal mines had been,
a plaintive regeneration
a beckoning to flight.

The crack in the dashboard
allowed enough space to let go.