Expectations like Dreams

Did I think I would be healed after my first stroll down the littered sidewalk of Dekalb? Did I expect that clarity would descend like a fresh rain, with the first entry into a corner bodega? Did I hope that on this second night, after I dragged the garbage can out to the snowy sidewalk in front of a classic Brooklyn brownstone, that I would do so with the confidence and assurance of a gal who suddenly knows herself and where she stands in this world, independent of where anyone else believes she should be? Sure. The answer to all of those is “yes.” But so far, I have worked online, roasted vegetables, wondered at the intermittent hissing of a radiator, walked around aimlessly — open-mouthed and taking pictures like a tourist — and purchased fuzzy slippers with peaches on them from Burlington Coat Factory for $9.

And dreamed this:

Your presence has no name. A sheath of substance on a section of fiber, or hair. Glowing dully on a black background.