In my dream someone named Michael has repaired my leather jacket. He used a wide brown zipper on the front and demonstrates how easily it slides. I grope through my pockets to find some twenties so I can tip him.

In my dream I fix a lanyard for J’s cell phone.

In my dream the end is approaching through the darkening doors.

In my dream David Hockney steps from behind a screen door. I shake his hand, as I am his host. His hand is unnaturally soft.

In my dream I hold a bird, woven of split willow in my hand. I shove it into the top of a duffel bag.

In my dream the antique mall has rubber clown shoes that are four feet long, in black and camo.

In my dream I walk across the plaza to the street. I know the things I’ve told her haven’t changed her opinion of me. I had seen him in the lobby.

In my dream I’m in the back seat of an suv and as my friends, who are on the outside arrive to tell me good news just as the car begins to roll forward, gradually accelerating while they pull at the doors. The whole thing is heading for the back of a bus.

In my dream I am in darkness. Things slip past me.

In my dream I grab at the stopper in the drain and pull the foot long clump of hair and soap from deep inside it. It feels satisfying to yank it free.

In my dream my outfit crackles. It’s for work, which is delayed.

In my dream I’ve returned and there’s a child behind the building.

In my dream there is a paper fused to itself, clutched in a hand.

In my dream a friend is writing reviews of science fiction stories for a few dollars a pop. I tell someone not to scoff at any income, even amounts that small.

In my dream some students are recording a DIY version of an album by Brian Eno. As part of it they have painted over the cabinets of their group kitchen provoking the ire of campus security. I’m trying to protect them by pretending that it is part of an assignment for my class, but it’s not really working.

In my dream I feel the ease of the exchange across a bowl of space.

In my dream I walk past the cars, parked in formation with sculpted loaves of bread across their hoods. One looks like two humans joined at the head. I know that later in the scene it will come to life in front of the camera. I hurry to get out of the shot.

In my dream the hand on my head pushes me down. It’s evening. Everything turns.

In my dream I conceive of a piece: a wedge shelf where the bottom section is a paper bag coated in slip and fired and the top surface is a piece of cardboard painted with wood grain. The whole thing is hung on the wall inverted.

In my dream there is a rounded path and a quiet dispute. My feet are leaving the ground.