A band of hurricane weather splashed through and soaked the Morning Glory mound humped over a bean trellis. Then a rinsed blue broke, pierced by sun. I sucked a wedge of pineapple and was read to by a child who was later taken away in a van driven by a camera and an orange braid of wires. When everyone had left I took off my shirt and hung it on a nail in the goat pen. I looked down at my chest and imagined my heart in the space mother had told me it was in 1949, in Jefferson City, at a faded picnic table on whose edge I wiped peanut butter from my palm while watching a yellow hickory leaf fall at an angle through the shade cast by a freight trestle. I imagined that heart as a hole which pulsed, and when it no longer pulsed (as one day it would) it would widen and I and the world would be sucked through. The air smelled of wet burlap and tomatoes. On an outdoor table that was really an unplaned pine plank set on two rickety sawhorses I saw Tom cut into a flounder that reeked of ocean. He’d sell pieces of it to migrants trudging home from their shift at the cement factory. Tom made a living that way. He was in his own cloud and I couldn’t lift a hand to him. He opened his mouth to me and might have said a thing, but a jet roared over and pummeled our bodies with sound (from the jet a general looked down at our carnage, flipping a lighter and sipping a glass of cranberry juice that was handed to him by a black arm that reached through a curtain slit). I removed my pants and stretched them on the lawn. I walked to where I could no longer see Tom. I walked away. It’s best to be hidden. Beneath an eave or the sill of a leaf, but I won’t tell you where, lest you find me. Upside down, I fastened myself through my feet and curled my meek head up. The green storm grew within. It split me open, enveloping me in a savage green tongue of mucous. It’s from in there, where, very still, I’m calling you.