midnight: a cot holds 2 tousled bodies
and a pint of Maddog apiece
soon the duo are wading in Bermuda grass
the glimmer of the barn’s star-speckled tractor
its belly jolted by a spider
sprung from rusty bed coils
and the madness of a wan mosquito moon
hold onto the dancers like a lunchbox
one youthfully recites...
whispers...
“let’s not fish tonight”
each hay-strewn step of the loft ladder
pitch-black against the barn’s beams
yelps like a different beast of the night
