by Ariane Blackman
Dreams are the spaces between things,
wordless burrs
secret indentations
Imprinting on skin,
sinking inward
like hangnails
Bursting out
between things known
yet unnamed
And forgotten immediately
when white curtains
fill with the rising sun
But the skin remembers,
the primed neurons,
carrying a vibration
That is like uneasy knowing –
a restless itch or irksome lover
waking with us each morning
— from Juniper Volume 1, Issue 1