in that there is no world in which we may refresh eachother

I. The dream was unimportant. 

   That it reoccured last night in the form of a second, a more public act, does not grant it greater import.  

   I'm learning, on a curve 

   (or maybe I'm leaning) 

   to be suspicious of persistence. 

                                                                         (she married her stalker, but it didn't last. couldn't.)

II. I tell myself this, but I was no less tempted, yesterday a.m, to use this space to record and think the    

    dream through. I began to write, but my fingers locked, full stop, mid sentence. It was not that familiar  

    feeling of kinetic mutiny causing me pause---that internal phenomena that causes your hands to  

    abandon ship on a foreseen (prosaic) nightmare---but fear. Fear of expressing myself too simply.   

    Fearful, too, of being understood. 

                                                                         (i meant it. pain no words can render)

III. What persists: the detritus of details. longer hair, his, not mine. an auditorium. red, velvet seats replete with cigarette 
      burns. a flash of a scene, rounded by dialog. the sudden appearance of a former teammate. "Engaged," she says, 
      presenting her ring (and her fiance).        enter: lady macbeth.  the slow rise of a murderous impulse---hers not mine--- 
      that I can feel no less.

                                                                            

                                                                           (please show me to the lifeboat).