Mouse Hairs By Moonlight
Some are broken teeth in a hollow tree,
some are humped and beached,
breached by moonlight.
Nothing comes out of an old barn
without smelling of oil,
the oil is for the fur that grows
on weather-beaten iron,
for the mouse hairs that rise
on horse leather;
for tin cans when chill winds slurp
their green metallic wine.
For the tractor and its parts,
a devolved acropolis
of gaskets and camshafts.
Nothing goes in
without leaving its print
nailed to the air.
Possum pelts patch-work timbers
into skin-deep quilts.
Tobacco smoke and sweat linger
to tinker,
as if time could be fixed -
and shadows mended.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2019
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