Monday, December 13, 2010

Eight Days To the Solstice

Dull-witted and slow. The sun breaks through the clouds, but its thin streams are not enough. Appreciated, helpful, but not enough. I need blasts of cheer, blinding light, a baking.

Saturday night I woke every hour thirsty, then floated awake among the bobbing obstructions of my pointlessly jumping brain. I had to work hard to sink back into sleep. In one of the last hours, I dreamed I was riding a rhino. His giant prehistoric head slammed against the sides of the curving hallway that barely contained us.

I keep my head low, gripping his rough skin between my thighs. The earth shakes, the walls shake, all shakes, but I am no captive. I grapple with his plunging bull neck and urge him on to destruction.

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