Then there is this dream with its other bright edges,
a piece of paper spread over the flowering field,
thin as a reflection. You know what’s wound
tight there, wanting to undo.
Even when you don’t look, it is still there,
all brazen and sting, all blast-net of stars:
a single-walled room that is eating itself,
one big hole of hallway,
pale and crustacean. And inside it,
the milk-film bristles with light. Inside,
you keep filling with water,
and the water keeps filling with copies of you.