My back was a scroll of rice paper
stacked layers deep; an autobiography in runes.

Wooden palette on wooden wheels. When I knelt upon, you coiled beneath me.                 
Our weight moved us, arms brushed with leaves and leaves of ginger.

A man unseen loosed the first page.  Flutter from the seam at my neck
like a bedsheet on a clothesline. 
                                                                                              Fluid wrists, liquid twilight. 

He gathered another: A scarf silhouette. 
                                                                 Each page folded into a humming, darting bird.

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This is almost a direct transcript of an actual dream I had in a hotel room in Ankang, China in July 2006. I do not even know.