There was a story on the news about a sheep with fifteen pounds of wool walking around
Australia. It looked like an old man. Sour and stern faced, like his wallet was stolen. It was in my
dream last night. He wanted to give me some of his wool, his weight. I was cold. We didn’t
know how to extricate it from his back. It was scratchy and tangled and gray. So we went to
sleep, me curled up on the inside of his underside, dreaming of scarves and mittens. Him
dreaming of lightness and balloons, the feeling of sun on a light back, running through flowered
fields. Wake up wake up. the burden of being upright, gone.
