Vents spit dyes on the dirt that had driven deer in season, drays, and the sodden hands of desperate farmers. Hidden beer cans cluster in unchecked weeds. After hours the dry grass disentangles. Moonlight blanches those Biblical names, the markers grown hide-thin. The same wind will dry their dust, their epitaphs, to dry the hands of sweatbacked men at their cutters, their forearms weaker than the driest blades.
Velvet ropes coil about the arms of the hardhats, the gum-pocked chairs brought out for auctioning.
Hoping to glimpse the screen in full day we stand as close as we can, adjust our vision to the light-dark. Stiltingly this work goes on, our own faces pale in the absence of heroes. The Night Driver A blue light buzzes with each burnt moth, snapping the way a bartender unfolds dollar bills. Cats sulk in the lame grass, their mouths whiskered even more. I exhale, and smoke ties bows around the mirror.