Purple sparks dancing at my feet. The last Union Pacific heading east. All the wheat put to sleep. At three in the morning, I’m gasping for breath, a bag of rocks in my chest. The bed vibrates ever so slightly. And she’s standing beside me, glowing red blue green. I explain to her that the bed isn’t hers anymore, tell her that she has moved on. She frowns, red and white light. I ask her if I can please sleep in peace. She tells me she’ll think about it. Explains that they didn’t wait the forty-days and now she can’t find her way away. He’s out there somewhere waiting for her but he won’t be patient forever. I tell her she can wait here if she can wait quietly. She smiles, white on white on white, and my breath finds me again. Mosquitoes buzz in my hair and beard. Birds waking in the trees, singing at their missing sun. Finally asleep, I dream uneven dreams of cats and death and traffic lights. Purple sparks dancing at my feet.