Behind her the world rushes past; a cacophony of metallic laughter and electric eyes.
The sun is luminescent overhead. The man is pale, an albino with golden eyes. He dons a broad-brim hat of woven grass. The brim is dyed red. He digs in his pockets for the key to the house; it barely fits because of the rust. The battered door creaks inward. Dust and bottled love make his nostrils flare. Legend sniffs to clear the tears from his eyes . . .
Sitting in the scented moonlight my toes tremble. The steam that curls above artistic plates is the same clarity that haloes each salt-grain star.
You cook the mushrooms in butter and eat them with white wine and your lover under a moon that never crests the mountains . . .