i have this dream. i’m not sleeping, instead resting. i’m laying at the bottom of a dark sphere, and bright angels are corralled around my peripheral singing songs in reverse. nameless, faceless, but eyes constellated with all the stars. i’m on the ocean floor—no, i’m lying on air. i’m as old as gypsum. my face is clear glass, made beautiful with pressure and time. and my heart is as young as a new bird’s, freshly broken from the egg, wet, and eyes clamped shut from the sharp rays of the sun. the rain falls down on my skin in sheets of daggers. but the sun is as warm as the womb. and the wind, like a spirit’s first—or last breath, lets out a deep sigh. i understand the singing.