A busload of people is about to smash into a cement wall upon which is playing a movie, such an unlikely, impossible impromptu drive-in, featured in the middle of a highway. I am watching this unfold, attempting to see how every part of this dream is pieced together before the moment of impact. This moment is difficult to trace, and it becomes even more so, to think about this as tracking a poetics in which every piece of the dream is fragile, and the narrative, although promising insight into process and statement, shifts from the point of origin to openings beyond any inevitable collision.

Call it form, or a first form, or a sense, or perhaps, even, a sensibility: In the dream, a man is caught in a crime. From on the bus, I look down at the cap of this man, whose head is slightly gray and nappy underneath the bill that I will eventually lift to make sure he’s black. I first see him about twenty yards in front of me a few moments before I notice some commotion up ahead, and realize as I move closer that the trouble is he has smashed an old, white lady in her face. How could you do this? Didn’t you know? Intractable trope, submerged in my mind – how did I get from moving by bus to foot? How will I later, or earlier, depending on the pace of my dream, figure out a way to direct myself through this readily accessible crime unearthed in my unconscious?