And then we lie still in our bluestem fortress.
Nearby are headstones, leaning and sinking.
   An apple in hand, a hat that reads SPORT —
“No what are you, really?” he asks like a sphinx.
             “That,” I laugh, “is what the miser said 
               when sophomore year I played 
             the tight-lipped, no-faced

  Ghost of Christmas Future: remember my winging,
straight at Scrooge, one long-nailed finger?”
  A friendly tease is a pleasing thing
I watch his teeth break the apple’s skin,
              and with mineral glamor he arches a brow
                “One year,” I add, “I wore a cloud
              of beard and played the shouting

   cheddar-loving cruise-ship castaway —“
“Always,” he asks, “bit parts?’ “Always,” I say. “ a mask” —
   and he kisses me right on the lips. Cottonwood cotton
drifts on the draft like a pillow’s been shot.
             “Once,” I say. “they cast me as ‘singer’
             COUSIN ROY, COUNTRY SINGER
             WANNABE.” His smile lingers.