Anatomically-correct people wandered into his dreams that night, talking to him of disease and redemption, of truth and impossibility, of fleshlessness in limbo.

"It wasn't something I would have chosen to be," said the woman, flanked by her companions, who set about wrecking his desert of dreams.

He tried comforting her with a kiss, but didn't know where to place it. Instead, he danced with her on the rocky terrain of his psyche, to a tune that had been stuck there since his own face had disappeared.

"I have this habit of disappearing completely under the scrutiny of love," she said.

He comforted her with his own disappearing flesh, wrapping it around her like an ancient mink stole.

"I will love you for your mind," he vowed, staring at her breasts. Her companions knew of his ulterior motives, and decided to gather to her defense. She sat upon the ground, unaware and sightless.

"What intentions do you have towards our sister?" asked the one whose eyes were still intact.

"I only want to love her," said the dreamer, unconvincingly.

"I would have clothed her myself," said the fleshless man, menacingly.

The man, who was an artist by trade, fought the abominations until they disappeared in a puff of lies. The brainy girl watched, amused at the idea that anyone would still fight for her honor.

They created babies shaped like more rocks, like wet sand. They made love in the limbo that existed in the spaces between his synapses. They escaped his thoughts with nothing more than the bones that held them together.

leslie powell

22 september 2005

minnetonka, mn