Beds / Country

It's been raining for thirty days. There is no end to the cold. You have to heat food every now and then. You have to cook and feel lethargic. You feel lethargic. You heat food again.


Past five, he was watching the candle go grim;
the light dimming, until he was hearing
what it seemed to be the resumption
of barely-breathing, consequential;
despising that morning he found himself
in warm furrows
of endlessness

Where the dimming resumed was
that afternoon when he picked up
the soggy mail
from the gate rusting
smelling the handlebars of childhood--
mingled in sweat--

There was fire created with the friction
dimming of the eyes
a thousand ways


The buzz of a fly past through his ear at one in the afternoon, when he was about to slide to the most elusive of luxuries, he hadn’t slept for the past two days, he needed one, and a fly was the last thing he wanted to hear. He sprayed Baygon and shut the blinds, and he was sweating. There was no cold water. There were only bright lights and the dust getting heavy. There was only the neighbor, a Korean pastor, playing a church song from his organ.