your old sweater

If there is nothing, we create something. I’m using the royal we for that, but really I mean me and my fingers, me and my cat, me and the Mac, me and something else. It’s never just me.

But then again – it’s always just me, isn’t it? That’s the terror I don’t face.

Some people talk about dreaming as if it were this humorous anecdote, and I cringe. “O, last night I had such a weird dream!” and all I can think is, last night you lived. Last night you lived in a place with strawberries for shutters and your old sweater, the one you lost in this life, sat in a corner and reknitted itself for you while you ate Spider-Man comic books and they all tasted like rain.

How is that trivial? It may be absurd, but the absurd is hardly trivial.

I fill the space with words because emptyplace to emptyplace, I cannot remember. They’re all grey days, all half-opened closets, and I’m picking my own pockets for you. My own dreams are little lives, and that’s nothing profound, but give me back my banal wishes. If I had gone to bed five minutes sooner, I would have caught a different train.

You’re waiting. At the station. Your sweater is waving its nubby arms hello.

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I acknowledge that I live and work on stolen Cowlitz, Clackamas, Atfalati, and Kalapuya land.
I give respect and reverence to those who came before me.