How We Do It: Part XLII

I dress her in gray and black leopard spots, a black turtleneck, the thin cotton scarf at her neck a modern geometric. A thin veil over a deep weariness.  The light in her eyes is either a reflection or the sun itself is a reflection. It was supposed to rain, I thought as I loosened the tongue (my own) and laced her shoes. It's a mosh of a life, too. Last night's this morning I dreamt I pushed through a door as tall and wide as a life and opened into a valley, a path of stones (cobble, I read yesterday in a book) along a rushing stream, snow on mountains in the distance (a Parrish painting I referred to the other day, the light). Lightly I ran, like a child a woman child over the cobbles while the water burbled and fish uncurled, swam orange like threads, those threads in the brain that I try to reel in, do fish ever stand still? I wasn't running away but toward and I nearly forgot to notice the sun going down, the end of light until it happened and then there were more cobbles and then stairs going up, the other side, another door at the top, tall and wide as the first. Would I know how to turn on the light? A switch, an explosion of light. I conjured this life, this dream, these leopard spots, this pink and blue geometry, the sun, the thin veil, the deep weariness, this thin, curled girl.