I dreamed my mouth was full of typewriter keys, my head was full of a tapping sound, in a code I couldn't understand.

I picked up my old man's mirror and looked at my mouth and the keys read something backwards, and I couldn't decipher it.

So I asked Joan. She said it was my avalanche cord. I smiled and saw my typewriter ribbon issuing from the back of my neck from which Joan was hanging out the window and screaming her life out. I reached for her, but my hands kept hitting the space-bar and down she went until the carriage hit the margin, then there was nothing I could do.

I woke and touched her all over with jerking motions. It's all right, I said.

SOURCE: untitled prose poem within Dream and Poems, in Dreamworks: an Interdisciplinary Quarterly (v.3, no.3, fall 1983, p.198;)

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