The Unproven

For months I was visited by a voice that remained in a doorway
but refused to speak to me, calling only my cat by her nickname
while tufts of fur shed from nerves floated through the dark.

I tell you this because it is not the unproven I cannot accept.
It is my mailbox of absent responses, the discomforts
of giving too much, the lost measures of darkness

moving through this house after storms that leave the window
screens full of stars; each evaporates by morning, in time
for those who sleep to insist they never were.

This part? Remarkably like some dreams I have. I’ve never been able to connect the dreams to real life anxieties, though.

The dream of something dark chasing me through scratchy bushes and gopher-holed paths while I try to find a hiding place? That one happens when I have too much to do, too many things promised.

Then there’s the one about …

Now to go start DoableBlogDudes.com.