Dusk disarrays the senses.I dream an accumulation of driftwood. I dream a red skirt. The sky ladders itself to my window, and I climb down, using only an elaborate insect manual and a yard of lace. Afterwards, the rain bleaches the houses white as cat bones. There is music enough for a perilous dance, all twirls and innuendoes, but not enough to trap in a bottle. I dream in cursive. The wind leaves no trace along my body.