Bloody Nose

I had a dream last night in which I considered the morning, afternoon and night of a bullet as it traveled on the way to its destination.

And it felt as if something small, aquatic was swimming in my eye. My left eye to be exact and no rubbing or blinking of it would exhaust or stop it.

I have this image of you. In it you are outside smoking. Your brow is furrowed from the light and the angle of the sun causes the veins in your forearms to seem mountainous, significant. You speak between the motions of smoking. A few measured words then a drag and hold, smoke circling within your lungs; followed by the exhale and a few more words rise up with the smoke, just as winding, they meander up and away. The cigarette is flicked and you study your fingers’ movement as the ashes fall. The red burn left is a sign.
And I am thinking of the shadowed veins, wondering if they lead to treasure or if they are hard to the touch. Tiny mountains, swollen rivers, risen paths. And there is no cigarette in my hand to buy me time. The only smoke that circles in my lungs has circled within your body first. And as you flick the cigarette I study your fingers’ movement and I am aware, the red burn remaining, is a sign.

I had a dream last night that butterflies started to stream into the room and land in my hair. They covered my head and shoulders, all shapes, colors and sizes, and began to mate. “Stay still,” others informed me, “be careful and let them do what they are doing.” And I could barely feel their flutter against my forehead, on my neck. Some couples landed on my forearms, tiny and connected they made their butterfly love and I watched, and I sat still and let them.