I walk out in the early morning and the dew is heavy as Russian tea. A small creature jumps where the grass stands uncut. My thin legs tremble as if I spent the night on the ocean.
Last night my wife slept fitfully and I was the cause. I tossed and pulled the blankets, snored operatically, dreamt of the dead. Connie had to leave the room at four in the morning while I went on dreaming of dead friends.
If the early grass could talk I think it would speak of the prairie moon with no untruths or fantasies: a boat would drift to a far shore, away from time, those long vowels aimed where coins are useless.
S.K.
Planet of the Blind 