Singing in the Fields of the Bulb Farm
This morning the sun lights fire to my eyelashes.
That leaded window glass has done this to the slumbering
since the 1930s. This wall is the sole spot against which a
bed can be placed. In it, I feel the outline of nearly a century’s
worth of body dreams.
This morning I hear singing in the fields. A rooster boasts.
A small plane drones overhead.
I imagine the pilot landing it in desperation.
Behind this house; nothing but trees
for forty miles until the volcano. After that, more until the desert.
The coyotes circle the farm at night.
I know why they howl.
The owls know, too.
Last night’s Mekong whiskey was the very last of Thailand.
I won’t go back.