In my dream the painted tin is essential to understanding him. We pass it back and forth.

In my dream I’m reaching through the weeds while I talk to him.

In my dream I’m repatriating batches of creatures around my new LA studio. The black crates that they are confined in slide down the hilly streets, splintering in the sunlight. Many of these animals are dangerous or at least chaotic. This isn’t a crisis yet.

In my dream I clamber over to the rope bridge so that we can make our way to the ground.

In my dream a railing disappears into the water.

In my dream I am choosing between four plates of different stews. Each is partially eaten. This has happened every day.

In my dream I’m combing the crowded shelves and bins of the Chinese grocery for dinner ingredients: bundles of greens, two jars of sauces, a cellophane bag of dried mushrooms and lilies. I know to avoid the noodles.

In my dream the dull light picks out the struts of the metal table. No one else is there.

In my dream there is a low pitched assault of voices.

In my dream two younger people dismiss me for not being more vocal when people misgender me.

In my dream there are glints of green across the walls.

In my dream the row of outdoor handball courts stirs in me the possibility that I could play again.

In my dream we are in a rowboat in the ocean and she laughs as she tossed pieces of food further and further away so that her dog has to swim harder and harder to retrieve them. I am shaking and crying and begging her to stop.

In my dream the race is on to  get back upstairs before closing time. Already half of the lights are off.

In my dream we are waiting for the council to vote.