Dreams: like an unstoppable fire, or a field of dead dogs. Rotting cabbages, peeled potatoes. Like a basement, dark, with no where left to hide. Like a locked door or a closed fist. Dreams, like a movie I can’t turn off — that keeps showing the same scene again and again, changing the actors, calling it new. These marshy bogs. These untended corners where weeds come to push through the dirt. Dreams, like flying, like I’m a sparrow, like I know if my arms stop for one single second, I’ll fall. Dreams, like a moment of beauty I know I cannot hold onto, always woven through with something terrible so I don’t even want to try. This bed of mine is a battleground for darker things. I wake up surprised there’s not blood. And sometimes, when I dream of kissing you, I’m surprised there is; it lingers inside my mouth, copper mixing with longing, staining my teeth summer-sweet and almost sorry.