Pulling Over to Inspect a Pillbox with a North American Tourist

It lists beneath a sycamore swashing in high summer leaf, and takes a hit from underneath: a root knuckle bulges along the floor. Its eight loopholes have fissures, sprouting thistles; through each the wheat is fattening. “What’s this thing for?” A starling sings its wind-up song. The sun slides out. And this taste of piss, that Fetherlite slumped in the corner, those Holsten cans, the markered slogan do not try to answer. Might.