When the moon shuttered her raggy windows last night, I felt her pouring and grinning like a Cretan widow with a lover waiting in the orange grove, scented with olive oil. The glass of her window was the deep green of heavy jade, black and scattered over with shards of light. I know she felt me good. I know she loved me like motown, because Cretan widows are as dark as pale gets.

Hey Gorgeous, did I play that accordion right? Did I sung the keys like you done told me with your lips as perfumed as lemons and peaches, with your hands like soft eyelashes, like you done told me? Oh, my blood can play the banjo like summer fire on the porch, because you've twanged it and jangled it and given it the swift heel, fast as little Jess Davies and his sassy mouth harp, you heard him play come last Sunday, did you not?

Ha, but you give me the soil and the sugar. You got me going, and I don't like stopping.