Kate Farrell

For a while after he died my father didn’t seem to discern dream visitors, but I was amazed nonetheless to witness his swift and serene rejuvenation. From time to time I’d find him dining outdoors in beautiful locales, a multicolored grain on his plate I’d never seen elsewhere. Yes, laughed the server, it’s a staple here; a sort of national dish, I guess, like potatoes in Ireland, pasta in Italy, couscous in Morocco, rice in Japan or Madagascar. We can’t get enough of it, and it’s remarkably nutritious. What’s it called? I asked. She replied, metaphysics.

In a visually spectacular dream some years back, I took Paul Klee’s posthumous class in poetry and painting. What luck to be swept with the elect across the ocean that night to environs that could only be by Klee.Klee? you protest.Surely the dreamer is everyone in her dream.