Recurring Dream, Moving Toward Some Unburdening

Do you remember how often 
I used to dream of searching
through houses not our own
for a bathroom? I pushed in
door after door, following
what I thought was an audible  
plinking. And no, it wasn't
dark. Or at least, not yet.
In some rooms, bedclothes 
were mounded on sleeping
forms. In others, the shape 
of a crackling fire. Long 
wooden tables with woven 
runners, salt shakers and
stone bowls of a flecked 
blue shade reminding me 
of river water. Is this 
about the body holding in, 
until it can no longer? 
When it does, it wants 
to excuse itself or keep 
others at bay. A last
door always opens upon 
a view of fields, or a hill. 
Light hovers. Wild grass,
waist-high, makes another 
room through which a body 
could find its way.

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