This year I planted only white pumpkins – big dumb skulls – as if an army of ogres or strongmen had lain down to die in my garden. Soon I vow to cover this place with concrete, sell it off plot by plot. I will sit inside at my kitchen table forever, making scarecrows out of dollar bills. Whatever I dream it will not be this: cutting an earthworm into sixteen pieces with a rusty hoe, my mouth a dirty little hole of black soil.