In my dream a writer is delighted by the way that we have mounted one of my father’s poems on a thin wooden board with a handle attached so that one can hold it like a paddle or fan, or hang it from the back of a pew. She waves it around while another academic says that she and he are both “horseflies”.

In my dream, the world’s richest man has a submersible base. I pull at the filthy gaskets of its bathroom, trying to dismantle it and this aid our escape. This is going to be tedious work, but it feels doable.

In my dream it’s the wine that the cult is producing that is turning the inhabitants of the Italian town into ghouls, who want to capture and convert as many of us a possible . They will not relent. Every walk through a sunny crowd or alley means trying to push to safety, to guess whose face will slip into rictus and whose hands will clutch.

In my dream a former student comes to an opening and it is clear that she is emotionally distressed, perhaps mad. The staff hovers, trying to get her out. I pull her in and we walk . Everytime we pass a piece of pizza, she pulls the cheese off and holds it in her fingers. I keep hoping she will eat something, but she never does.