Last night the backyard was exploding with moonlight.
Everything was a different shade of gray
and had a calm and/or stony visage.
The predatory floodlights of Molly’s house hadn’t quite noticed our presence.
I could feel the beer in my hand dilating with the sound of my breath.
In a swift yet complicated way, I pointed to something ineffectual out by the garage.
And when you happened to graze my forearm
I removed my pants and spun them vigorously around my wrist.
by Andrew James Weatherhead