dear b,

i had a dream about you. you had two children and we passed under a honeylocust by a large rolling cemetery. sidewalk too small for a stroller. i don't think you have children. you would be a much more conservative father. i think we undressed by a brick wall near the foursquare cement of middle school. it was hot and autumn. it's been a few days, so i can't be sure of this. they were both boys, young, blonde, blue ringing their eyes. chatty and naked. they undressed, not us. but children don't undress, do they? they take off their clothes. no reservation of disrobing, just throwing off what inhibition couldn't keep on in the first place. a child in the bar last night resembled yr oldest dream son and suddenly, i left my body and when i returned something was broken. broken, or empty. why do i say this to you? because i thought you should know. if you ever have children, be a good father. what is dangerous? i hear you are back in the city, searching.