Oh I guess, the dog. The desire. I rearranged the lamps in my bedroom. The insects make noise in the warm fall night.

Earlier:

Stalled. Where am I? Caught up in the trance of late October afternoon. Willed from sleep, a whirl of half-dream sprawls like cream down my eyes, a spiral in my throat. My questions still are pointed thistles, prick the skin, I overlook these brambles, sorry, heat and hot water, messy, helpless, raw with loneliness, unbaked, and not delivered. I barely hang together, my body seems grotesque to me, as twistable as a doll, as I uncertain step the next stone in this maze of light. un, un, un, un, un, the rinds pared off, the mummy's wrap unrolled, unbound, undressed, undone.

So change, so freedom.

PS If it feels non-innocent, it is unbaked; avoid it, evil.