IT MUST HAVE been some other place you learned to slow dance like this, to breathe in such a space so tight, rapt, oblivious, still moving though the music’s stopped, the band stepping down, it’s break time, walk to the parking lot, why not, look west, the sun’s fading behind the hill called Blue Pinion, and look what the night wind has done, it’s ruffled your hair, pulled at the corner of your blouse, twisted your skirt just so; we can say anything at all, feel the dark breeze shuffle through.