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A white farmhouse in a Texas field

A green screen door opens

The spring makes that sound of stretching

Then it slams, that sound of slamming

A lifeless two-lane highway runs by it

The windows upstairs look down upon it

There, a thick tree with a worn tire swing

Miles of flat all around

No hills

Dirt, sun

A warm ticking in the guts

The belly of the house is still

There’s the air of time passed

A machine of 10,000 years

Going forward, going back

A green couch

A wood-burning stove

Memories smoke

The fissures in time reveal

People not there but still walking

The man upstairs in the bed looks at the window

A lone semi rolls by

The last rays of sun splatter loneliness

The radio comes on

Old music

The man in the bed ponders Heaven

And now he knows he has dreamt this very moment

He can see the future

Like a movie in his sleeping head

Victrola stitches and lamp oil

No electricity, save for that in his hands

He can set fire to the doldrums if he so chooses

Dying God

Dying angel

Dying ancient man