What’s a cathedral next to a field of poppies? Not literally next to, I mean; “compared to” a field of poppies, I mean. There’s this field of them — of poppies, not cathedrals — beside the freeway at the moment that is nearly sluttish in its profligacy, sluttish in a holy way, though, that conflagration of red exploding in what started out as a wheat field. Daily I am amazed that it has not caused accidents yet, because I nearly have to pull over onto the shoulder when I see it. Next to that, a cathedral is a dank dead place. When I die, put me wherever you want, because I’ll be dead, in a better or worse place, or no place at all, who knows; but for now I’m alive, and I’ll take the poppies, or the jasmine or the sweet purple bush in my back yard, or little girls with no front teeth saying “Schnackerl”.