River run, I dreamt of muddy bottoms and seaweed courses, my hands dragging along webs of green. There was taste of smooth stones and the chords of pulpy sinew wept in the back of my mind. How do dreams form, in the sun strewn catacombs of my underground? I woke to the sound of water bubbling and an echo of the trees whipping on the banks, I close my eyes and try to rewind and return to the last image. There we were, my dream self and all the ghosts brought to life, skin humming and heart thrumming. I live so fully, twice, in the bodies of other worlds unrooted and clipped of my memories. The senses tapped and weighted, I can recall even in the waking, the earthy texture of the places and faces that fold me in night after night.