(above what I woke up saying, around 3:30 am)
I dreamt last night that Angela stole my fleece jacket, even though she had one of her own. Her’s was tan, mine’s green. I was very distressed. She’s not a stealer. That seemed wrong even in my dream-life.
But it was real to the point that I half-awake had to think of where exactly my jacket was (hanging on a hook in my closet), and that I very badly wanted to tell her (I’m not sure why) that she shouldn’t wear my green jacket zipped all the way up like she did her tan one.
She looked very happy and unbeknownst of her klepto and zippered ways, so that’s good.
I don’t know why, but sometimes I dream that very nice people are very mean to me. which is not so good.
Something about writing on here makes all of my sentences terse and fragmented.
Today the air is thick
with heat and things
undone and doing. You look
up, you don’t. I say hello
to you, I look at the nothing
It’s July and you
are already telling me
that the season has gone
by too quickly.
It is the shade of
happening. It is the looking
up or beside.