This adds to the sense of displacement I feel from the three hour nap. Did I visit some earlier time as I slept, and then forgot the experience as I usually forget dreams, but brought back some residue of it in the form of warmed blood? Maybe I am flushed from running through time as I slept, running to say ahead of that dusk I now see consuming the landscape. I'm sad that I can't go back there, even though I don't know where there was, or even if it was ever real.
Mrs Noah : Taken after the flood
by Jo Shapcott
I can't sit still these days. The ocean
is only memory, and my memory as fluttery
as a lost dove. Now the real sea beats
inside me, here, where I'd press fur and feathers
if I could. I'm middle-aged and plump.
Back on dry land I shouldn't think these things:
big paws which idly turn to bat the air,
my face by his ribs and the purr which ripples
through the boards of the afterdeck,
the roar - even at a distance - ringing in my bones,
the rough tongue, the claws, the little bites,
the crude taste of his mane. If you touched my lips
with salt water I would tell you such words,
words to crack the sky and launch the ark again.