It might be a dream repeated, unclear in its own right, perhaps within a dream held from another night, wild with words but always coherent for opening doors in that world. Tenses get muddled up, and a long sequence of numbers will surely mean a winning lottery ticket in the morning, or temptation to join you in bed.
Asked with gravitas to remember a name that makes perfect sense in the present night, and that will be Googled tomorrow with little result, I still hope to dispel blurriness, plead with turbulence and dispersion. “Paradisial” retains the original inflection, but we wise people think “heavenly” preferable to ignite the erotic in a subtitle.
On a summer stroll, we will be gifted the sound of birdsong and the very last pear blossom. With joy and relief, we will finally hear what they sing of and mean, their lyrics of two regular syllables or more. I will create a new season just for sleep, for a space where I do not have to repeat myself, to not have lips follow mine in silent imitation, not to be counted on fingers one, two, three, as if I and larger figures needed to be contained. Ah, to be seen in my language, from my best side!
Melisande Fitzsimons
Picture Rupert Loydell
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