Andrea Busch


Last week,

among the field

of golden wheat—

the one we drove past

every summer, the one

that always seemed larger

than before, than we


I dreamed myself

into a magnificent thing,

having pulled the car

to the side of the road

and left it there to rest

and become forgotten.

I woke basking

in the honey

of the dawning sun

and found my body

sunken in the damp earth,

a woven mat of crushed stalks

beneath— I was alone.

And everything was me.