in the streets like a Western. Horses
walked into the vanishing point
and music swelled while the sun

tucked itself into hills. A lasso
appeared in my hands, and, unsure,
I threw the loop through the night.

The audience erupted, and, odd,
you said, I hadn’t noticed them before,
but there they were, the bleachers

bustling and full. The director declared
the evening a wrap and the crew
formed a caravan of Civics, unwound

into Interstate. If I had known my lines
were scripted, you said, I would’ve
improvised more. Or maybe asked

for an encore. At least this explains
the windows, I said. Another bird kissed
the ground. The stars were color bars.