the dream was at the brink of becoming a nightmare;
I was desperate,
running up to say something to her that she wouldn’t or couldn’t understand exactly
in the way that I did because I thought
if she did she would change her mind and tell me something like
you are my love and you have good thoughts and you are beautiful
her face pushing out from the background and my trying to grasp
there was something, an argument, about who had been responsible,
she accused me of having hurt the child when I was a child, but
I should avoid falling into autobiographical anecdote
as it doesn't even make sense to me.
under the window covered in bamboo string drawn shades
my hand on a white painted wall
I wake to shuddering
in the softness of my bed
from a threatening pressure
that feels, I suppose, like the physical manifestation of a thought
from the earth, unconscious, dreaming,
unknowingly disturbing
as it tosses in sleep
because no one sleeps alone.
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