Micro Memoir 54

 

There was a book in my dream last night. As the poet Robert Bly would say, there was a pirate ship sailing through dark flowers. And so my unconscious lent me its ocean.

 

When I was a boy, legally blind, down on my hands and knees at the shore I’d trace the whorls and lines in sea shells, my nose so close I caught the strict scent of the underworld.