Mouse Hairs By Moonlight

Out-built, humped, and beached, breached by moonlight, nothing comes out of an old barn unfound. Engine oil, the fungal fur of time warped wood. Weather-eaten iron coated by rusted smears. mouse hairs that rise upon old horse leather. The green metallic wine on tin cans a devolved acropolis of tractor parts put aside for a thousand nights to seek and hide. Gaskets strewn where tangles bloom. Nothing lingers long without leaving its print nailed to the air. Possum pelts patch-work timbers into skin-deep quilts. Tobacco smoke and sweat, the turpentine film of the once varnished, the once cherished. Treasures bolted to a deathless sleep, well rubbed tackle and tools harnessed now to a tumbled-down dust, a sun-frayed flap of light slipping in and out as if time could be fixed and torn shadows mended.