not the unified field as we know it 1 the hum, not so quiet, how it grates on my ear. then a hiss, its sound inconsistent as an aerosol mist flows into each breath, a haze for young eyes as they drift back and forth, out of self, out of dream, out of dark and of light and my arms cradling. but her hand still keeps grasping the mask, holding it to the face I see through the plastic, until the red dragon leaves, or at least becomes silent. 2 sleep is uncertain. walk into dream or out in the world. wear a red robe. forget what it covers. forget each new instant but remember the children. their tears melted butter. are they yours? does it matter? the problem's not fixable, but you cannot say so. 3 the bathroom sign says its only for colored. the one you step into. the one in Cincinnati, Ohio. and all of them in there stand amazed at your nature, the pink of your fingers, your red strawberry hair. you finish your business, tell them: it's been 50 years, this is senseless but their faces say different. 4 its dark and the animals eyes look luminous and uncaring at Peter and Katherine who stare back to scare them. and with laughter they do, these fictive immortals but they scare me also along with the drumbeats heard in the background 5 newspapers are calling: they claim to bring pleasure. they claim to give knowledge. like sirens that come from the streets on an ambulance (but not those known to the ancients) the call is insistent, and the claims are all dangerous, and the answers are distant. 6 our couch is paired with a television, and this chair with a desk, and these words with this screen, for speed is measured by time, and time is measured by motion, and my time is so fleeting. 7 the red dragon is tossing. it rumbles in sleep, in the cave of her chest and she feels it breathing a fire on skin and in aches and under eyes, weary half-moons colored purplish grey. what was the dream and what the reality of the night that passed over and left her this day? 8 I look at the snow out my window as it becomes pitted from drizzle, and what was white becomes shaded. the red berries still decorate the branches of trees all frozen and dried despite the wet sky. 9 eight is a number that's magic. and twelve and thirteen. three. two. also one. and magic is needed by my daughter, by me, by the light as it moves. so we count the numbers with what time allows, but it isn't enough. we're moving too slow.