In dreams last night I was not me but seemed instead: a spurred horse, a hatless priest, snow clinging to a windy peak. You were there too: a fox bitch, falling rain, three perfect notes sung high and clear. Last week we were a scattering of small distant fires chasing each other round the firmament— connect the dots any way you like. Still, I knew you. In the crucible of my skull you're always becoming, a daughter of fear and unfinished business. Even now, I suppose, you thrash in some unknown chamber, shedding form, growing smaller, purer, until darkness delivers you, naked, as I. And what remains, only remains to be seen— Until the crack of hard blue morning light restores Yesterday, the world of senses, turning you back into the one thing that doesn't look or act like I expect.
-- November 2003, July 2004