I wake from a dream that sprays
out of my face and onto the walls,
sails out my eyes and nose,
pools on the pillow.
Through blood, teeth, naked women, and goats, I see me in a van with the Air Force gypsy
who writes lyrical poems and hikes sheer cliffs near a Shetland castle.
Minutes ago we were steaming up windows.
I am now drowning in our mist,
thinking how glad I am to never have to clean another kitchen.