The Seer fiddles in his pockets:
mouse whiskers and rattlesnake traps,
badger teeth and bison horns,
Indian beads polished for trade.
He fishes out the square nail,
rusty and long,
that once held together Old Jones’ barn.
It buzzsaws in his palm,
rests only in winter dark
when sound freezes until spring
and moonlight turns snow silver,
And then, the nail points to a fold
in the canvas weave
heavy with the smell of coal smoke,
corn silk, milkweed tuft.
Moon money, legal tender
anywhere in the universe,
buys you quite a piece there.
