The goose is not real but is painted on the barn wall; I must have painted it there. The barn wall is not real, but the goose is a white goose, and it is in the kitchen, bathing in a metal tub, although the water is not in the tub--drops are shaken from the goose's feathers. The kitchen walls are red, and the light in the kitchen is yellow. Beside the metal tub is a wooden chair, a dark wood. The barn walls are gray. I see that the goose has stretched its wings, shakes the water from them because it wants to fly. I will not follow.
I do not want to be taken into the sky. I am scared of the dark. Or, I am scared that a bright light may shine into it and that I will leave, overtaken.
There is a story I know about a horse named Goose. He knew his name. Goose, Goose. He knew he could fly and flew. Over the fallen log, over the water. Then a brick wall, and a sharp left. How could he know, had she not shouted from above left, Goose, left, not from her legs, not her hands, not some wish or intention misplaced within the physical. She spoke loudly, from her mouth. He left the ground and turned.
I do not want to be turned into someone else--do not turn me. Do not make the cabinets in my house open and close; do not make the toaster run by itself.
Sometimes the picture changes suddenly, like channels on the television that I own but keep unplugged. Instead of a goose painted or drawn with chalk, there is only sky, a blue like the underside of some shells, or blue paint. And clouds, and the voice of a rabbit saying If you become a sailboat and sail away from me, I will become the wind. Although I do not like the wind, unless I am inside and the lights are on, my hand on the cat's spiked collar, and him curled warmly in my lap.