Subjective Destitution

I see her when I dream–standing over me, whispering sand into my ear. There are pictures–always the same pictures–in the sand she whispers: a frowny face, a ballerina, a boxer, a wilted flower, torn lingerie, a cup of coffee, a novel, a photograph, tea leaves.  They mean something, though I pretend not to know. Then the wind comes in through my window, exsanguinating the pictures and their unacknowledged significance. I wake to find sand in my ear and a ruined castle on my windowsill.