In my dream I’m pressed against the gate, confronting him with our spell book, “The Book of Three Hundred Flowers”

In my dream the question is do I have the stamina to walk to the highest point in town for ice cream even though the sidewalks are painted yellow like taffy.

In my dream the station wagon is nearby but the fog holds our attention.

In my dream his shirt shows that he rejects the proposed choice while a framework of painted bars  pulse across the metallic grey sky around him.

In my dream the sign hovers, read before it can come into focus. I feel its words in my throat and see the horizon creep closer.

In my dream it’s muted and the light is coming down.

In my dream there are a jumble of topics: the contract for 44 thousand dollars, the sculpture of the back of Sonic’s head, the tight aisles leading to the back room. We softly argue about them all.

In my dream there is a quiet argument around why he is wearing a tuxedo. He is smooth, like a tin toy.

In my dream the violet car is squared off like a children’s drawing.

In my dream there is a scene with a forgotten celebrity around a spiral staircase made out of hammered red license plates.