no shortage of disasters
He quoted the poet and said
"my love is narrow and paranoid, like honey on the tip of a needle"
lei pingyang
okay, he paraphrased, he said, Are you sleeping with him?
dreamt in pin points, stitched through my dream. inverse images, just projections, standing on their heads. houses fill with water and we slog through the ceilings. trees uprooted and grind into the ground as though caught in garbage disposals. thick slabs of lightening tear up from the groveling sky, sick with black clouds. a mother cries, she's left her small son, and he wanders off elsewhere, dodging her bad love and his own self. fires break out where the gas lines have ruptured and rain spits derisively on us all, faces and arms dripping mud. detritus, hillside, white leg running like a thief through the beam of a searchlight. mud and iron taste in our mouths. a door slams, or maybe it is the buckling sound of wood, the keyhole closes, I wake outside his arms.
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