recorded
you find yourself flying. it is not a triumphant kind of flying. you are at the height of the gutters, the height a child holds a kite. you move as if walking, but the ground has politely stepped away. there is no wind. there is only the slowness.
the town is the town from a postcard you cannot place. tile, slate, antennae, a single washing line of pale shirts. a cat watches you go by, untroubled. a window is open, and inside a kettle is whistling, and you understand that you must not look in. flight in the dream is a private thing. you steer with the lift of your chin, the angle of your spine. you have always known how. you cannot remember the lesson.
far ahead, the moon sits very low — too low — over a roof that you may have lived under once. you do not go any higher. higher is for other dreams. you skim a chimney; the warm air pushes up under your feet for a moment, like a hand. you are crossing, almost in silence, the slow geography of the surface.
recorded on waking · undated