She’s been using the word dream lately: a wild fancy while awake, walking, thinking, “This is where she’ll go. This is what she’ll do.” She believes in revelation and disclosure, small tokens that give her a way. She believes in the dreams at night, visions while asleep, in the flashes between consciousness and the layers of repose. Images she doesn’t understand quite: bleeding genitals, drama in verse, a dismissive woman who makes her chest hurt, violence in a library, friendships fixed in protection, a beautiful garden, prairie women, smoking joints on a beach until the water covers her legs and if she doesn’t move, stand, go upright, she’ll drown. She’s been reading about painted bodies during the day, and those have gone into her dreams too, and slavery, and the freedom of choice, and how we value those bodies, the costs of profit. What happens when a waking dream dies? Transformation seems reasonable. She’s been waking again and again to write down the imagery that frightens her most. Freud said of dreams, “They are concealed realizations of repressed desires,” which she appreciates for its veracity: a wish, a yearning, which is, in essence, like a wheel in perpetual motion, the Beverly clock, as close as something can be to impossible.

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