In my dream a dim motel room and dawning disappointment.

In my dream a cardboard box swings at the end of a rope.

In my dream there are three blue log cakes being sliced in a computer generated house in The Valley.

In my dream there are six things to evaluate, including the two part red metal one.

In my dream I should have gotten the photos from my Mars probe back by now.

In my dream it’s morning and we take our places in the dim reading room, row on row. Books and clipped articles are passed. The light is granular. We wet our fingers, scan pages, murmur. There is conflict and later, we are starved in our seats.

In my dream my new house in Mexico City is huge but so full of hazards, like the preserved scorpions that might still be alive. As  day dawns, we circle the corridors, counting off rooms and gradually coming to love it.

In my dream I am at what I know to be a “traditional Indonesian play”: painted wooden sets that slide from the front to the back of the stage as performers in bright costumes covered in shivering silk tassels sing in deep voices and martial rhythms.

In my dream I suggest the eight of us have a slumber party in the station wagon since we are already packed in it.

In my dream the office building has overlapping departments with glass dividers. At one I’m given a celebratory bowl of ramen while we cross out the old phone numbers.

In my dream there is collision of bodies in a long low room, there is dance, there is castration.