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  • Last night I had a dream, one of those slippery ones, the trying-to-get-somewhere type, get to a door, some door, a particular door, any door, but the ground moved like water beneath my feet.

    When I awoke, I felt dizzy, at sea.

    Just couldn’t find my bearings all day. Couldn’t shake the fuzzy feeling.

    In town a man I did or did not know asked me about growing shallots. I couldn’t fathom why.

    At the bookstore I left my keys. Though I didn’t know it. The bookstore owner came looking for me in the coffee shop. I didn’t recognize my key ring. Or the bookstore owner.

    On the driveway a small rabbit wouldn’t get out of the way. I tried to speak rabbit to it.

    It was enough to send me back to sleep, to slip back into that dream and find that door, my way, myself.

    And then I woke up again, from the dream within the dream.

    It had been raining all night. But now, morning, really morning, the rain has stopped and the light shoots through the mist that is lifting from all but the last corners and snags. The orioles are singing. I feel like singing, for everything makes sense. These trees, those birds, this cat, that person.

    As the dream and the dream recede, as the day grows sharp in relief, I lean into the edges of it. My biggest fear, you see, is that I’ll become forgetful, suffer from aphasia and then disappear into the fog, like being caught within a double exposure and I am the ghost.

    And so if you see me today, don’t mind if I go on and on about all the things we know together. Just making sure, you know, that this, too, is no dream.
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