I miss the cold. It's been warm and sultry too long, and I won't get a winter this year. It must be perfect in the Carolinas. My dreams lately have been spent in tussles with the weather. I'm rolling in waves and can't touch ground. I'm running a marathon and beating the boys; then the ground is thick-cut grass over a marsh, and my sneakers sink; storms come to take me into the water. Last night I was in my grandfather's house, and he was there. I wanted to live with him, but people were leaving the city. I glimpsed the sky and saw storm clouds urine yellow and black in shapes like pencil drawings of falcons.
I've never dreamt about waves before, so much water in these dreams. Maybe my psyche is soaked because I live in a city with no drainage. The roads are flood plains. I used to go up high in the sky in my sleep and be afraid of falling. Now I'm in tussles. I feel like drawing or going for a walk on the beach without having to turn around and come back.