RURAL GOTHIC
Loneliness thick as the fields of wheat. Wheat I walk through
daily, scent of heat and silt. It shimmers in the breeze,
the sun unfurling over the hills. I stand at the edge,
cupping my mouth around someone’s name. A cloud of gnats
makes chaos of the August air. We need a word for this:
feeling far from home when you’re right there.
And what is to miss but a catch in …