Copyright 2010 Elias Simpson
**These ten “vignettes” are intended to be produced separately on long scrolls of four or five lines and sold for five dollars inside empty spice containers.**
The fireflies in the hayfield and the crescent moon stick in our retinas. Understanding of their motion, brief as vision, lasts. The sky bends: close, far too close. Dancer steps slowly in the field. In thirty steps he startles a rustle from the bushes. In thirty-two steps he runs. Joy stands near me, as pregnant as five moons. We wait for Dancer to appear from the between spaces. Fireflies crest like a wave. Grass is still, its color ripples. Joy touches me and the touch flares. Fireflies vanish. I am gone. She is gone. We grope for each other. We find a hand, the soft lobe of an ear, generous breaths, a breadth of hip. The soft and liquid heat of a kiss on my neck. Orange comforts down the back. Her hair aggravates the skin under my chin. Dancer’s four hundred and ninetieth step compresses the acre of dirt in a shoe print. Square acre, acre cubed. She spreads my chest across her hand. The grass is brown and dry: a habitat to trample for the pleasure or the comfort. I do not go yet but consider my body in a pointless dance. The cage of her fingers on my fingers lifts. I run. I am halfway to invisible, then three fourths. Dancer’s trail breaks the field. I could cut him off at the black stream. Joy is patient. She appears as bright as the moon. The temperature of her ears is pale blue. She makes the light of her face by not moving. The baby in her understands never.