An explosion during the night. Tossing and turning, as if a dream were bleeding into the darkness. Whistles, sirens, the haunt of concern, turning over and over as if there were no escape, twisting air and skin, the procession growing longer each time the detonation resonated. During the night when it’s difficult to speak, to comprehend what is being explained, dream images catching fire, screeching tires, steel reflecting some distant sun and it doesn’t make any difference if we see what happened or if it happened right here while we were sleeping, tossing and turning as if a dream were bleeding into the night.
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Andrea Moorhead
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