‘Dream Sequence #1’
Two palms open to testify there was a brother, the tiles broken on the floor. When the hand is submerged in water it bleeds the shades of the atmosphere, unloading the burden of rituals and observation. From each wrist comes a color, the objective: to identify the source of illness. Red ink is purity; black, something less significant. Blue equals detail or a moment forgotten. On the mountain-scape are horses. The horses range in tone and pitch, each one with a race beside them, each one with fire on their back. One has a broken neck. One is bleeding on the mountain. The red becomes a landslide, carrying itself down to the edge of the stream. Hidden in the attic are a series of surrendered files, boxes containing memorabilia from a time you do not remember. But still you are the keeper, preserving each handshake, each kiss, each stack of fading letters. Your hands swollen from paper-cuts and desire.