The Wine Maker's Dream

streetlight disco balls hanging above us
make streaks and a rainbow through the stars
while our shoes swim in grease on the street.

our dance comes from the rhythm of tires
on the lonely highway—the stop signs tell us
when it's time to switch partners

in this uncanny waltz we have going
tonight. the scales of the headlamps
crescendo to the sound of violin strings

plucked as the bartenders step outside
for a smoke and to talk about the girls at the bar
they want to dance with;

they are the wallflowers as we strut up and down
the contours and dips of the manifesto in these
empty sidewalks. it's all part of our conflicting melodies

from the sound of our feet scraping the gravel
and the whirring from engines: the ones we rev
before we make love in the wall of sound.