Northern Light

How often we brushed the sawdust
from our shoulders
and slipped kisses around
the pointed aroma of pine,
our ears still tolling
from the sabretoothed,
spun-plate blades.
Mechanics disecting the age of a tree
kerf by shrieking kerf.
Larch hemorrhaged
on the sharp air
in a flown powdery pitch.

The night
beyond that milled second shift
when improbable green
neon shears bleared the stars,
wigwagged in the solar wind.
We drove northward pulled by purples too
and swerving-drunk on curtains of color
slivering the sky;
our garb chalked with bits
of dimensional lumber,
a florescence  revealed in our eyes.


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