i am a shopkeeper,
sweeping away to the tendrils of dust
that collect inside


the winter trees smell like
water and around the house
it's sulfur


every day i wake
to this leaky light,
pale and viscous across barns,


the pregnant cats screaming
and lapping up musky, sour milk
while the farmers


are weather men
with hurricanes in their wrinkles
leather droughts


from the window,
the glassy sun achingly spreads
thick honeyed legs with a glow


that falls like molasses
across my cheeks-
pastry skin


they would leave me in the field
for the birds to clip my lips
like sunday coupons


long, bristly limbs of the scarecrows
a hat
a disposition


i stand there all day
with the wheat grass humming
in the midday sun


reaching my knees.
the peppermint throws to me
its perfect, violent scent


i didn't know not to pluck it
i was a doctor
i was a hospital