I’ve heard it defies the conventions of dreams to touch a ghost animal. Yet, when for one last time I was allowed to gather that beautiful contradiction called cat—twelve silky pounds of wildness—into my arms, I didn’t want to let go. It was only a moment before I awoke from his familiar warmth, so maybe the restriction against touching ghost animals was enforced, only not quickly enough. Freud said dreams are wishes. Once, I cut off my mother’s hands. Whatever else dreams may be, they’re a kind of recollection. It doesn’t matter that mostly they’re forgotten, vanished like those theoretical elements conceived in a cyclotron whose existence is measured in nanoseconds. Whatever else dreams may be, she said, they make for conversation. (Source: poetryfoundation.org)
extract from pink ocean, by stuart dybek
"i still want to return to that hotel room by the station/ to hear all night the goods trains coming and leaving"
- sarah maguire, spilt milk
(Source: poetryarchive.org)
(Source: thisbeautifulhunger)
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