My dreams curdle the night, the heavy, wet November night. Outside, the rustle of corn in the fields, silage of dreams, of a man’s want. And inside, my boner poking up against the sheet. Lightening far off, breaking out the night. The whispering of the house, conversations of ghosts. And the howls. That pack of dogs is come sniffing around the barn again. They always know when I got me another girl. I got me two of them a couple…