This town has no need for windows

—it never has. What’s best is on windy days

when the smell of Antilles lilies or petrichor 

washes over me like an illusion of a warm summer 

day. I lie and hear the donkeys pass. Beyond 

the amplitude of my outstretched knees 

I imagine a future where clouds fall from the sky 

in the shape of sea side olive trees. In the future 

all planes will fall uncontrollably from above—

clouds of bloodied body parts and then evaporate 

into ash. I am filled with fear. I hear the discordant whip 

of a cattail push oxen forward into the failed hushing

waves of grain brushing the horizon; each coarse head 

whips, pivots like the loose neck of a dead goose. I am 

weightless in thought. My eyes close. I smell a sea rose.