In my dream we are moving down the street in flashing yellowed sunlight. Her voice, blunt with cynicism, keeps commenting until we are done.

In my dream: musical numbers, irate fellow artists, a retirement party.

In my dream I sort through the metal furniture with the smell of soured dairy  in my nose. Nothing is right, but I don’t stop.

In my dream we live in the aftermath and someone asks “Can we have bars instead of dinner?”

In my dream I drive carefully down the crowded hallway. From the back seat my boss grills me on the cast-off phone parts the occupants have incorporated into the clusters of memorial sculptures outside.

In my dream two figures alternate poses and radiate fire as they do.

In my dream a few houses have pink and blue stripes fainted on their facades, which is comforting.

In my dream we share a joke about the three food shops at the bottom of the street. Light reflects off of the pork in the window.

In my dream light winds through the streets. We are happy.

In my dream I watch the music video Erica Henderson has made with her new band. It takes place in the subway, on a disc.