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.
the plastic bouquet of flowers i see in the trash, and leave there
light, the color of beach sand, that glows orange and pink at around four thirty in the afternoon
the taste of a wild rose hip, something like watermelon candy mixed with lemon and the smell of petals that lands on my tongue as i suck out the flavor from the tiny fruit as i’m walking home along the river.
the gaping mouth of the dead possum
with its guts splayed out
around its body and lots of
flies swarming around the eyes, and i
can’t help but quickly look away as soon as i see it,
and then look back, this time for longer
staring at the mouth and tongue
as i pedal around the guts and feet
and curled up
sitting in my room staring at the computer screen when i notice that the sunlight is fading outside and i propel myself down the stairs and out
the door to get to somewhere i can see the moon
watching the glowing orb of light grow
behind the tree line,
feeling the coolness of the night land
on polyester sweater
and thick denim
lying on my back (on the ground) (in the garden) facing the sky
darkening (with the night),
and lightening, with the moon,
as i wait for it to
seeing wisps of cloud cirrus (named in latin for a strand, curl, lock, of hair)
wondering how almosts stop being almosts. like in the case, of ,
how does an almost become a full
feeling sure how there is something in the knowing that soon it will be empty again