I'm an angel not meant to soar; I just tread air. I pass through things; we interpenetrate. Myself locate in coordinates of air As if undersea. I must keep swimming like a shark, Evermoving relative to things Half in me; Else I'll bond too deep to them and fuse: Self lose. As I swim the street, a car goes Through feet. Into church, over worn pews. Air through nose To lungs so hard, so slow: relentless work Sleepless as a shark. Climb two stained-glass windows. Holy birds. I'd rather BE dove than angel! Get to breathe. Punch the rainbow, shatter birds and bleed, Reach air. Even under heaven, wheeze. Hard to be this angel, moving to stay free, Separate and free. This work's enough to turn Any angel dark.

• Struggle to get air: not literal. I had allergies, but NOT asthma.
• If I pause, I'll fuse with things: the dream's real warning. I was in a California college whose dominant ideology held that intimacy was all and defenses should be dropped. But the dream claimed I merged too readily, and it held real danger for me.
• The dream was right. Six months later, I got trapped by a batterer. I nearly died. To leave, I had to smash my stained-glass, turn-the-other-cheek picture of what goodness was. To leave her proved I was selfish, unloving and wicked--for needing to breathe.

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