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.