in the dream i have an extra outer layer of skin on my hands, thin and peeling and
cracked in many places.
inside the cracks i see small pantry moths crawling and cocooning and growing and i am just freaked out enough to tear away at the skin to rip off the outer layer.
to make myself a new skin i take a new piece of special paper and cut out the shape of a hand
hiking to the beaver ponds we have to thrash our way through overgrown mountain laurel and high bush blueberry, winding around swampy muck and side stepping sloshy puddles. t says wouldn’t it be easier if mammoths were still alive?, instead of deer trails, we would all just follow mammoth trails.
at first we hear the owls, barred?, and then the coyotes, two, maybe four?, announcing themselves with yips and howls, and we can’t help but
stop our hurried walking (the light is fading, and are we going to make it down the mountain before we can’t see anymore?) to smile and listen to everything that happens in this place at the edge of day and night
an indoor picnic of pomegranate, salted almonds, pickled onions and rhubarb apricot jam on toast
arranged on a milk crate table on a solid oak floor. and not to mention the piece of dark chocolate and the four paper bags of different types of seaweed hand-harvested off the coast of maine. tasting the differences between sea lettuce and kelp and irish moss
while wet boots balance on the edge of desk above the
radiator waiting to dry.