In my dream I meet Shonda Rhimes. She holds out her hand with the suggestion that I kneel to kiss the fingers. While donsp she informs me that I have her favorite first name for a woman.

In my dream the pulsating ball of white light hovers in the center of the field.

In my dream I push through what is still green.

In my dream I turn the piece from fat to thin again,  by flipping it back and forth. It’s morning. The street food stalls are opening.

In my dream the edges of my field of vision are corrugated.

In my dream we make jelly donuts on the bakery floor and each worn surface of the painted wooden box I hold tells the story of a family displaced from the neighborhood. I’ve had it for so long.

In my dream I explain to my  co-passengers in the elevator that I can’t help them because I no longer know the players in San Francisco’s gallery scene. Dusk is coming on quickly.

In my dream I look in the mirror and see that I’ve grown my hair back out over my ears and dyed it black and purple. My eyeshadow is black and grainy and satisfying.

In my dream we are in the dining hall and L, bottomless, moves against my hand with frank desire. It’s been decades since we’ve been in the same room and I’m surprised by how well I know their body and how little we care about those around us.

In my dream we examine the car before turning to the white washed walls in the grove.