I had a dream last night. You were there. We were both marionettes carved of sloughed off wood from the last world war. They ran tin cords through tiny holes in our hands and feet and made us dance the timorous way round the garden patch out back where we used to play as children when our parents would fight like waves crashing through the original place, the holy spot where one time I did show you how much love God has for everyone and everything, including the dull, broken, rusty things that are too cracked and caked with the black grease of ages, applied by a womanly worker whose care and concern was doled out in five minute sessions of repair and repose between the ever-constant lashings of life and fate delivered most saliently by her older sisters, throwing plates and knives with wires in their eyes sputtering electricity lighting up the skies with their tremulous anger and stompingly swift, stropping clouds down aground to the garden where we loved each other forever and ever until your mother came and breached the gunnel of our love, pulled you out of the tunnel and carved obsidian eyes and radio flyers flung cross the starry sky bereft you’ll remember of clouds by the anger and knives, gathered round by piano wire and turned to bone, an ashen gyre gathering up the sheep and the rivers, puling up a nice pyre, until I was able to write finally the definitive essay about Neutral Milk Hotel and then I went back to bed.