[The little farmhouse emptied]


The little farmhouse emptied. The girl with a soft violin. The mill humming/stinking in the dusk. The notary collects her shoes. You’ll never know the anthem, child. You wear your three-piece suit in your little coffin lined with felt. I pick myself up and cross the gravel road. See the candle glowing in the little church made of matchsticks.


“[The little farmhouse emptied]” was first published in Hotel Amerika.