I had a wide room with tall windows that I did not deserve. Beneath the streaming light, a narrow street buckled above oak tree roots and burst at the seams. I lived there with one plant and twenty-seven children for 180 days, which are the numbers and numbers are misleading and I needn't have mentioned them except I've found it's comforting to count the inconsequential, like love affairs and stop lights and breaths between my lips and his.
The reason I called is to tell you about my dream, I had a dream of you last night. Yes, you were this old Indian guy standing on the back porch and there was a pail of water there on the step with a drowned bird in it - a big, yellow bird, really huge, you know, floating with its wings out - and you leaned over and you took it by one wing and just flung it right up into the air, whoosh, it came alive and then it was gone.
Once my mother called and left a message, which I despise, and she knows it, so probably she did it to spite me, but I saved it anyway because she is my compass. It went like this: We are amazing beings. We are neighbors of fire. Call us, we're at the city hotel.