The summer comes alive like a corpse. Colonized and repurposed, it bloats with worms. Little life comes for the moisture of sweat. Flies haunt the street lamps. Tiny spots move on walls.
For weeks, I dream of bugs. Little bugs, but millions of them together, crawling all over my body, ants up my skirt, flies laying eggs in the crooks of my elbows. I dream of an old sculpture garden in the middle of a forest, nature undisturbed for years, not counting the sculptures that have been built within, the stone fountain, pebbles, giant heads. Though it is morning, it is misty and dark. In my dream, I feel it has been this way all year.
