Price Crash

The rats have come, and I am in the field today too,asleep inside the liver of this old cow.

Gleaning paddy, gleaning paddy, a high fever came on.Last night's hard rain brought down the fruit, and the half-ripe grain.

Beside the fever sat a failed love, a young nurse,two angry apples.On the wall, on the calendar, some migrating herons were flying,and the greed in your eyes, glittering.

This sleep has a twin sister, and she is a great one for quarrels.How often I have told her: I am a failed soldier of the Fourth World War, a tired lover.

Still, still that sleep of mine broke and mixed into wanting, slowly.It stayed mixed in the restlessness of a young calf, in the funeral procession of the paddy.

The old cow is lowing now, walking across the calendar, into the shopping mall — in fear of the buyer.I am inside her. In her liver I have built a hut of weeds.You come floating in on the ether, into this broken sleep,scattering sexual signals, malice, envy, and the bad counsel of the crash.

But I swear I do not know Salman Khan's income figures.