In my dream you dial it back for multicolored. And food.

In my dream he is Momus in orange.

In my dream I’ve got an old digital camera with a mode that produces pictures like grainy, smeared xeroxes. I love using it and while shooting the dawn on Canal Street, I  see the post-club crowd lined up for cinnamon rolls from the magazine shop on the corner of Broadway: each roll is fat, impastoed with cream cheese icing and studded with blueberries. I’m getting one with coffee.

In my dream the season is brown and I am trying to preserve it.

In my dream: a street corner and a fragment of a song, hummed.

In my dream he sells locks for canvas bank pouches in the back of the shop. The cigars are so dried out they’ve become flecks of leaf in the package. This, the last open store on Canal Street, doesn’t have many days left .

In my dream the  hair clips and burnt matches have been taken off the apartment’s shelves and aligned on the shag carpet below.

In my dream the silver leopard kigurumi I’m wearing is comfortable but a little too playful, I realize, as my fellow highschool students begin to arrive for classes. I know I have something all black somewhere to change into but how to do that is confusing.

In my dream L says “Hi Nay” as she hurries out of the movie theater with a light blue raincoat over her head, moving so fast that I wonder if she is trying to avoid me. Then the sound of a helicopter is so loud that we look around to see if it is actually in the theater with us.

In my dream I trot out into the middle of Lexington Avenue to hand the sandwich to my mom as she heads downtown in the car. I get back two small oddly shaped slivers. It is Sunday.

In my dream it is time to leave the house and for once all I need to get is my jacket and  notebook.