Harvest Chaff

you were by
the silos, which were full of rice,
that year.

it took you a long time to talk, like always,
you kept rubbing your eyes
and elbows
while I stared busily
at something else like a man
waiting for his wife
to pick a purse.

I rolled soggy pocket lint
between my fingers until
you left.
your green corolla fled between
the rice ponds’ silver guts.

I figured I’d pick up the truck
tomorrow,
and got back that night
shiny and mosquito-bitten,
my breath gaspy
and bright.