box of rain

ONE THING I HAVE BEEN attempting, or rather undertaking is an examination, assessment, exploration of the subconscious, measured in boxes of dreams, put under the microscope. The setting a kitchen, into which walks Vesta looking like Little Orphan Annie all grown up, with brown curls hanging at her shoulders, the slump of a refugee, and her entourage of course, little confused ones looking for a corner to play, read, unwind, feel sanctuary. She is no way in a good way of course, but I am drawn to her inexplicably, the allure of the dark, the allure of the unknown, the electric sizzle of danger, sure enough she sits herself on the counter top with legs dangling haphazard, and I uncharacteristically for such a soft and polite gentleman break down the wall, seize her in my arms and press into her a kiss with enough power packed behind it to warm up the whole north for a whole winter, one of those big reactions that puts the wind to blow, and the air picks up all around us, and the kids look up rather in an amused daze. What was that? And, Why is mommy kissing that stranger? Trouble, trouble, trouble. Vesta is always trouble. Remember the time we were on that tractor? Or the time I left my shoe in her house, while her friends enjoyed a nude sauna party outside? Or that time we made love in the citadel while it was being stormed by Trumpists? Why the danger, Vesta? Why you? Why the love for the distressed damsel mademoiselle? But it is profound and it is passionate. It breaks off in hunks of dark chocolate and melts in your mouth. It seeps into your bones like moisture in autumn and lingers. You awake, blanket only half draped, fully alive and wanting more. Gray cool light. Watery rain. Just a gauzy dream. Translucent and sheer. A box of rain. Another one of those dreams.

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