D r e a m

I dream sometimes that I am wading waist deep in a dark stream. Fish swim
between my legs. Something shines from the bottom, as though the sun had fallen into the stream.
I uncover it with my feet.
It is a finger made entirely of gold.

This is an excerpt from a dream of a man who had killed his wife.
I find it utterly mysterious, serene and poetic. A finger lost in the river.
There is no mention of a severing, no violence. It is as though it has its
own entity, has acquired a precious significance all its own but that this
significance is yet unclear because it is newly hatched: a finger.

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