flecks of mica

Last night, you dreamed there was a hole in your room. It went straight through your carpet, deep into the soil. The earth was warm—it radiated warmth—and to look into it felt like nestling into a pile of fresh laundry, or new mulch. You were almost sure there were angels at the bottom, flapping around in the blue. There was one in particular who sounded like your mom, hand bell choir voice resounding phonic ophanim. It was almost her, but her body was pale and hollow, like sky. (Dreams are pretty weird sometimes, huh?)