We walked out to pasture
to feed the pigs, the neighbors’
dog running beside us, shitting
beside us. The clouds were a quilt
of calcite-colored gloom, our field
a carpet of sod turned over by hooves.
We sat as the chipmunks called
to each other, ass down in a sea
of tumbled stones. Selenite stacked
like logs, geode after geode
to the wind, our pockets brimmed
with the weight of colored stones.
Inside the restaurant painted
the colors of wasabi and ginger, we ate
wasabi and ginger. 80s hits screamed
eternity from speaks all around, even
in the bathroom. A plate of shrimp shumai
like pillows for a clique of mice.
We weren’t badly dressed
for the party, but we weren’t
dressed correctly, either. Grown men
in a palette of pastels, ladies drunk
beneath their brims, and the shining
horses racing towards their deaths.