The frame tilts on its side, all the way over and under the hills, through the woodlands, past the sailboats out fishing in that blue blue sky. I threw out the tablecloth and the table appeared underneath. Maidens a-singing waited on us, you and I, the both of us under that blue blue sky, in view of the woodlands, just beyond the rolling hills, rolling like sea billows and billowing smokelights. The Charger’s parked on the hilltop beside the great tree, hang a tire swing from the bough and flip on the lights, hang ‘em from that nightsky, it’s a picture.

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