In my dream the black reflective panels come to my waist, like a chic interior from the 1970’s. I can’t remember the word I was going to speak.

In my dream I stand at the part of the lobby where the elevators open and look at the cheap electronics in my arms. I’m going to give away these cell phones.

In my dream we push through streets while the light cuts across the dust.

In my dream the brush is low and dense. Both of stand still while the evening light moves around us.

In my dream two slots are filled with greenery.

In my dream there is a dinner and a giant mallet with a surface like rhinoceros hide. She swings it overhead without a sound.

In my dream we are joking when she puts her hand under my shirt.

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 J and I are resuming life as a couple, even though we’ve never been connected sexually. We will still be rolling around together on the pile of pillows in that makes up our living room

In my dream I slide the case back on the computer and make a circuit of the garden. The air is damp and we argue.

In my dream three different groups of kids are  ushered out of the elevator and into my studio.

In my dream the year old lamb we found in the alley won’t stop jumping up on us and licking our faces.

In my dream I know that is not how you hang the fleece slippers on the wall.

In my dream I came back, skeptical about how the heaps of yellow rock ended up in the room. We never asked for them.

In my dream we can’t break up the the boxes in the room. Night is coming on.

In my dream there is no point to the corridor.

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 it’s a new body on a new terrain, but I sense a conversation continuing.