In one she lies in bloody paroxysms
In another strolls beside me without a scar
In others my brothers genuflect
In this my nephew fills a fresh-dug grave
Dreams come before me with familiar casts and scripts. Without a moment of confusion I find my mark. All the details fill me.
In this one the hall runs this direction.
In that one a dumbwaiter descends to horror.
Above the garage is a thing of power.
Can I cope with the thought that he’s gone?
But is it all fluttering eyes and subconscious process? Is it all imagination, creation of minutiae? Or do I connect to something else? Does my mind instead find someone somewhere beyond the curtain? Someone in a mystic place. Someone with a home like mine or a darling child that inevitably wastes away.
Sometimes I think it’s just too familiar. Sometimes these dozens of revisits wear at my certainty.
In the hierarchy of dreams, for me, these hold portent.