September 17, 2007

Fiddle

The room worked itself up
into a churn of joy and agitation,
smelling of spilt beer
and soaking earth.
The electric lights slid
across sweating collarbones

and curved around a
flesh-warm, rain-soft sound.
It shiverdanced
like a lost ribbon tangled
in tall cordgrass
or dandelions unraveling in a wind,

then rolled away like hills
behind a train window, or
sentimental tears.

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