by Ann Bogle
His birthday Thursday marked the day, sixteen years ago, I returned to Minnesota from my domestic travels abroad. On Wednesday I dreamed that coffee grounds had spilled on my Buffet. I used my fingertips to wipe the grounds off the black wood. There was another clarinet, a silver one, that belonged to a man not in the room, that was clean of debris. Bob Dylan came to collect me then. He was a guest at a hotel. I agreed to follow him, and instead of going to his room, we went to the mirror together. There were green vines growing from pots and copper incense burners and beige and purple sheers billowing like kites. I took on his expressions in the mirror—he stood close behind me and we watched as my face became a kin of his.
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"Dreams from the Station" in Gargoyle 60, 2013.
Part of a series of dreams that has appeared at Annandale Dream Gazette, Lynn Behrendt, Ed., 2007-2012.
"Dreams from the Station" collects three of the dreams and appears at Fictionaut: