This Quonset hut in the woods
lacks plumbing, lacks a view,
and reeks of crystal meth. Living here
means rushing into the forest
until I rent a Port-a-Potty,
but I don’t think the DEA
will find me in any hurry.
You claim that in Bulgaria
in tall concrete Communist housing
you lived a cleaner, sleeker life,
although the communal toilet
in the hallway stank of death.
Plumbing is always an issue,
but this finished batch of meth
will bring cash and maybe a plumber
to install a chrome-plated bathroom
complete with vanity mirror
and maybe a rhinestone towel rack.
Watch the road. If black sedans
approach, retreat among the trees.
Don’t wait for me. The distance
to Bulgaria isn’t as great
as from here to federal prison.
The starlight this far from the village
sizzles like fireworks. Planets roll
like your eyeballs in their sockets.
Meteor showers pepper treetops.
Maybe these are my drug dreams
of choice. Maybe this is sex
writ too large. The caustic light
of Bulgaria must have blinded
the heavens, but here in Vermont
a bland innocence, tattoo-scarred,
laves the summer landscape
so that retreating to the brush
for basic needs is so pleasant
we might be descended from bears.