When I woke from my afternoon nap, I wanted

to hold onto my dream, but in a matter of seconds

it had drifted away like a fine mist. Nothing

remained; oh, perhaps a green corner of cloth

pinched between my fingers, signifying what?

Everything about the house seemed alien to me.

The scissors yawned. The plants glowed. The

mirror was full of pain and stories that made no

sense to me. I moved like a ghost through the rooms.

Stacks of books with secret formulas and ancient

hieroglyphic predictions. And lamps, like stern

remonstrances. The silverware is surely more

guilty than I. The doorknobs don’t even believe

in tomorrow. The green cloth is burning-up. I

toss it into the freezer with a sigh of relief.