We all need the universe to make sense.

It's hard to walk up, and the shape constantly shifts depending on how the wind is blowing.

As a child, I dreamed of waves that drowned. 

The seashells I'd hidden in the wood over the dunes were lost, and lost again, and lost again.

When the wind blows, I'd dream of driving a car that wasn't mine. 

I had to get somewhere, but I couldn't reach the pedals.

Now, the children are in the backseat and I have to nurse them while I drive 

and talk. There's dinner and loneliness. Dishes.

When you dream of sand like an hourglass, her body

curled warm into the curves of her mother, we feel the loss

over and over. It repeats, but it isn't the same. 

It's new every day, and it's unusual that the shapes form

a hollow place, sunken. Crabs scuttle by, strange birds.

If you lie there long enough, you'll be completely covered.


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