Sunday, October 28, 2012

One of my bizarre dreams, Draft I

She had pustules,
tightly packed
white bubbles
atop knots of red,
for infection
plaguing her face's
surface, each manifstation
about a centimeter,
spread thickly
from forehead to arms.
Her hair was a colorless
brown, cut like toddler
fascinated with scissors
would do it, layers blunt,
obvious as mortar. 
She reached out her hand
to touch my bare arm.

"Don't do that," I said.
"I've already had it,
and there's a cure."

I turned
and walked down
the theater aisle
beaded in soft light
guiding me to my seat
where my family
waited for the play
to begin.  

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