I swam in the sun. In the capacious sea
inside. Against insinuating waves. Jostling.
There’s nothing preposterous in the depths.
I was not shame-faced–a hippie-wanna-be skinny
dipped with a peace sign in her heart.
If I half-believed she would be an alter ego
sitting on a rock draped in a garish shawl.
In telepathy, being relaxed, keeping it smooth
and intact. This is holy communion. Then coming
up for air, drawing in deep, ragged breaths.
Prompt: We spent our nights dreaming. Do you remember your dreams? In my dreams of late, I seemed to be making a series of entrances and exits. In a recent dream, I was exiting into water and then shooting up as if in a dive to break surface. The water was crystal blue as in a swimming pool. I remember feeling surprised that I was in water. If dreams are stories, who is telling them? Who is directing? Isn’t that a mysterious process, dreaming? Write about a dream/dreaming.