Andrea Busch
Solipsism
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
Remembered—
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.