Night splints hold teeth in position, I believe. There is a baseless fear of dismemberment, of awakening without the sum of one’s parts, like the cave of a missing tooth. I lie in bed running, and too fast. Of what do predators dream?

All asunder

In his hurried dream of effervescence, of disintegration, our man had a knowing that his neglected heart was more than the sum of his parts. *** Art: Paul Klee, The Man of Confusion, 1939

Disturbed, I nodded . . .

In an anxious stepping dream, a scruffy old pup (three-legged) said “Thank you” into my ear as I held his hand on the stairs. Down a flight (in the waiting room), all of the seats were peopled with cutouts except one that held my brother, arisen. Thrice as real as the cutouts and more real […]


~In my mannequin dream, she walked with a limp and a clack. Lurched toward me with a doppler shift, as sure as a coaster’s chain drive. Her face- a calamine complexion, flytrap lashes, cheekbones of rouge pasties. And I, rooted, felt the come-hither hell of china fingers.~

Rest uneasy

Fell thee asleep with the lights left on.Apart, hidden safein plain sight, ’til now. When,by green dawn,the dark birds of your dreamscome home, once more, to roost [Image: J. Heiden Photography]

Square peg

~It is so odd. This placement. To be here at this time. In this gang. It’s a mistake, I think. Not sanguine to the purpose. They are on their way out. I am meant for beginnings.~ *Art by Cole Rise


~Fifty said to Fifty~ Time is growing short, growing cold. Know that i will be with you, all the way to the next time. Be on guard, lest I drift into the lock of sleep. Charge through the night, that you may play in broad day. Put away the fearsome fear, until another year.

A white thing

2:43 a.m. and I get up to pee. There’s only the night light, knee height. I shuffle arthritic, steady the wall, when a white thing bumps my eye like a drifting balloon. In a hissed whisper, “bitch” it says, imploding its albumen, stifling my breath. I don’t have to pee any more.

Donelda’s find

On the second globe in great Alpheratz’s sway, little Donelda comes to herself at the sound of trickling water. In the stream’s iridescence, something bobs, circle-twirls in the undertow of an eddy. This day, the water is warm, and her thin fingers feel no change as she scoops up the doll. Raggedy Ann has made […]