Dream

BY MATHIAS SVALINA

Someone has stolen the thing you love most. You are surprised, because what the thief stole, you did not think this
was what you loved most. If someone had asked you what you loved most, you would not have said that it was this
thing. But now that the thief has stolen it, you understand from its absence it is the thing you love most. You wander
around town, looking in dumpsters, checking pawnshops, asking strangers, hoping to find the thing you love. You get
some good intel from a few cool snails & head to the bluffs overlooking the cacophonous river. The thief is there,
standing at the edge of the bluffs, their back to you. You walk up & stand beside them, listening to the whitewater
thunder over the rocks, watching clouds slip & twist into & out of existence. You took from me the thing I love most,
you say to the thief. No, the thief says, I didn’t. That’s not how love works. The thief hands it back to you, the thing
you love most. But when you have the thing back you do not once again feel the love. Even with the thing you love
most in your hands, you feel the absence. How do I get it back? you say, How do I get back the love?  The thief hands
you an armful of tangled yarn. Here, the thief says. It’s up to you. You need to make it out of this. You look more
closely at the yarn & see that it is not made of wool or acrylic, but that contained in the interlocking fibers of the
yarn is everything you have ever felt & known & believed, & wrapped up with all of this is everything you might one
day feel & know & believe. You hold the armful of yarn close to you. It is heavy, heavier than you would have
thought. Do I have to do it now?  you say. The thief says, No, not now. But soon. You say, How will I know when I have
finished?  The thief says, You won’t.

Source: Poetry (March 2022)

Dream

BY MATHIAS SVALINA

Someone has stolen the thing you love most. You are surprised, because what the thief stole, you did not think this
was what you loved most. If someone had asked you what you loved most, you would not have said that it was this
thing. But now that the thief has stolen it, you understand from its absence it is the thing you love most. You wander
around town, looking in dumpsters, checking pawnshops, asking strangers, hoping to find the thing you love. You get
some good intel from a few cool snails & head to the bluffs overlooking the cacophonous river. The thief is there,
standing at the edge of the bluffs, their back to you. You walk up & stand beside them, listening to the whitewater
thunder over the rocks, watching clouds slip & twist into & out of existence. You took from me the thing I love most,
you say to the thief. No, the thief says, I didn’t. That’s not how love works. The thief hands it back to you, the thing
you love most. But when you have the thing back you do not once again feel the love. Even with the thing you love
most in your hands, you feel the absence. How do I get it back? you say, How do I get back the love?  The thief hands
you an armful of tangled yarn. Here, the thief says. It’s up to you. You need to make it out of this. You look more
closely at the yarn & see that it is not made of wool or acrylic, but that contained in the interlocking fibers of the
yarn is everything you have ever felt & known & believed, & wrapped up with all of this is everything you might one
day feel & know & believe. You hold the armful of yarn close to you. It is heavy, heavier than you would have
thought. Do I have to do it now?  you say. The thief says, No, not now. But soon. You say, How will I know when I have
finished?  The thief says, You won’t.

Source: Poetry (March 2022)

Dream

BY MATHIAS SVALINA

Someone has stolen the thing you love most. You are surprised, because what the thief stole, you did not think this
was what you loved most. If someone had asked you what you loved most, you would not have said that it was this
thing. But now that the thief has stolen it, you understand from its absence it is the thing you love most. You wander
around town, looking in dumpsters, checking pawnshops, asking strangers, hoping to find the thing you love. You get
some good intel from a few cool snails & head to the bluffs overlooking the cacophonous river. The thief is there,
standing at the edge of the bluffs, their back to you. You walk up & stand beside them, listening to the whitewater
thunder over the rocks, watching clouds slip & twist into & out of existence. You took from me the thing I love most,
you say to the thief. No, the thief says, I didn’t. That’s not how love works. The thief hands it back to you, the thing
you love most. But when you have the thing back you do not once again feel the love. Even with the thing you love
most in your hands, you feel the absence. How do I get it back? you say, How do I get back the love?  The thief hands
you an armful of tangled yarn. Here, the thief says. It’s up to you. You need to make it out of this. You look more
closely at the yarn & see that it is not made of wool or acrylic, but that contained in the interlocking fibers of the
yarn is everything you have ever felt & known & believed, & wrapped up with all of this is everything you might one
day feel & know & believe. You hold the armful of yarn close to you. It is heavy, heavier than you would have
thought. Do I have to do it now?  you say. The thief says, No, not now. But soon. You say, How will I know when I have
finished?  The thief says, You won’t.

Source: Poetry (March 2022)

Dream

BY MATHIAS SVALINA

Someone has stolen the thing you love most. You are surprised, because what the thief stole, you did not think this
was what you loved most. If someone had asked you what you loved most, you would not have said that it was this
thing. But now that the thief has stolen it, you understand from its absence it is the thing you love most. You wander
around town, looking in dumpsters, checking pawnshops, asking strangers, hoping to find the thing you love. You get
some good intel from a few cool snails & head to the bluffs overlooking the cacophonous river. The thief is there,
standing at the edge of the bluffs, their back to you. You walk up & stand beside them, listening to the whitewater
thunder over the rocks, watching clouds slip & twist into & out of existence. You took from me the thing I love most,
you say to the thief. No, the thief says, I didn’t. That’s not how love works. The thief hands it back to you, the thing
you love most. But when you have the thing back you do not once again feel the love. Even with the thing you love
most in your hands, you feel the absence. How do I get it back? you say, How do I get back the love?  The thief hands
you an armful of tangled yarn. Here, the thief says. It’s up to you. You need to make it out of this. You look more
closely at the yarn & see that it is not made of wool or acrylic, but that contained in the interlocking fibers of the
yarn is everything you have ever felt & known & believed, & wrapped up with all of this is everything you might one
day feel & know & believe. You hold the armful of yarn close to you. It is heavy, heavier than you would have
thought. Do I have to do it now?  you say. The thief says, No, not now. But soon. You say, How will I know when I have
finished?  The thief says, You won’t.

Source: Poetry (March 2022)

Dream

BY MATHIAS SVALINA

Someone has stolen the thing you love most. You are surprised, because what the thief stole, you did not think this
was what you loved most. If someone had asked you what you loved most, you would not have said that it was this
thing. But now that the thief has stolen it, you understand from its absence it is the thing you love most. You wander
around town, looking in dumpsters, checking pawnshops, asking strangers, hoping to find the thing you love. You get
some good intel from a few cool snails & head to the bluffs overlooking the cacophonous river. The thief is there,
standing at the edge of the bluffs, their back to you. You walk up & stand beside them, listening to the whitewater
thunder over the rocks, watching clouds slip & twist into & out of existence. You took from me the thing I love most,
you say to the thief. No, the thief says, I didn’t. That’s not how love works. The thief hands it back to you, the thing
you love most. But when you have the thing back you do not once again feel the love. Even with the thing you love
most in your hands, you feel the absence. How do I get it back? you say, How do I get back the love?  The thief hands
you an armful of tangled yarn. Here, the thief says. It’s up to you. You need to make it out of this. You look more
closely at the yarn & see that it is not made of wool or acrylic, but that contained in the interlocking fibers of the
yarn is everything you have ever felt & known & believed, & wrapped up with all of this is everything you might one
day feel & know & believe. You hold the armful of yarn close to you. It is heavy, heavier than you would have
thought. Do I have to do it now?  you say. The thief says, No, not now. But soon. You say, How will I know when I have
finished?  The thief says, You won’t.

Source: Poetry (March 2022)

Dream

BY MATHIAS SVALINA

Someone has stolen the thing you love most. You are surprised, because what the thief stole, you did not think this
was what you loved most. If someone had asked you what you loved most, you would not have said that it was this
thing. But now that the thief has stolen it, you understand from its absence it is the thing you love most. You wander
around town, looking in dumpsters, checking pawnshops, asking strangers, hoping to find the thing you love. You get
some good intel from a few cool snails & head to the bluffs overlooking the cacophonous river. The thief is there,
standing at the edge of the bluffs, their back to you. You walk up & stand beside them, listening to the whitewater
thunder over the rocks, watching clouds slip & twist into & out of existence. You took from me the thing I love most,
you say to the thief. No, the thief says, I didn’t. That’s not how love works. The thief hands it back to you, the thing
you love most. But when you have the thing back you do not once again feel the love. Even with the thing you love
most in your hands, you feel the absence. How do I get it back? you say, How do I get back the love?  The thief hands
you an armful of tangled yarn. Here, the thief says. It’s up to you. You need to make it out of this. You look more
closely at the yarn & see that it is not made of wool or acrylic, but that contained in the interlocking fibers of the
yarn is everything you have ever felt & known & believed, & wrapped up with all of this is everything you might one
day feel & know & believe. You hold the armful of yarn close to you. It is heavy, heavier than you would have
thought. Do I have to do it now?  you say. The thief says, No, not now. But soon. You say, How will I know when I have
finished?  The thief says, You won’t.

Source: Poetry (March 2022)

Dream

BY MATHIAS SVALINA

Someone has stolen the thing you love most. You are surprised, because what the thief stole, you did not think this
was what you loved most. If someone had asked you what you loved most, you would not have said that it was this
thing. But now that the thief has stolen it, you understand from its absence it is the thing you love most. You wander
around town, looking in dumpsters, checking pawnshops, asking strangers, hoping to find the thing you love. You get
some good intel from a few cool snails & head to the bluffs overlooking the cacophonous river. The thief is there,
standing at the edge of the bluffs, their back to you. You walk up & stand beside them, listening to the whitewater
thunder over the rocks, watching clouds slip & twist into & out of existence. You took from me the thing I love most,
you say to the thief. No, the thief says, I didn’t. That’s not how love works. The thief hands it back to you, the thing
you love most. But when you have the thing back you do not once again feel the love. Even with the thing you love
most in your hands, you feel the absence. How do I get it back? you say, How do I get back the love?  The thief hands
you an armful of tangled yarn. Here, the thief says. It’s up to you. You need to make it out of this. You look more
closely at the yarn & see that it is not made of wool or acrylic, but that contained in the interlocking fibers of the
yarn is everything you have ever felt & known & believed, & wrapped up with all of this is everything you might one
day feel & know & believe. You hold the armful of yarn close to you. It is heavy, heavier than you would have
thought. Do I have to do it now?  you say. The thief says, No, not now. But soon. You say, How will I know when I have
finished?  The thief says, You won’t.

Source: Poetry (March 2022)

Dream

BY MATHIAS SVALINA

Someone has stolen the thing you love most. You are surprised, because what the thief stole, you did not think this
was what you loved most. If someone had asked you what you loved most, you would not have said that it was this
thing. But now that the thief has stolen it, you understand from its absence it is the thing you love most. You wander
around town, looking in dumpsters, checking pawnshops, asking strangers, hoping to find the thing you love. You get
some good intel from a few cool snails & head to the bluffs overlooking the cacophonous river. The thief is there,
standing at the edge of the bluffs, their back to you. You walk up & stand beside them, listening to the whitewater
thunder over the rocks, watching clouds slip & twist into & out of existence. You took from me the thing I love most,
you say to the thief. No, the thief says, I didn’t. That’s not how love works. The thief hands it back to you, the thing
you love most. But when you have the thing back you do not once again feel the love. Even with the thing you love
most in your hands, you feel the absence. How do I get it back? you say, How do I get back the love?  The thief hands
you an armful of tangled yarn. Here, the thief says. It’s up to you. You need to make it out of this. You look more
closely at the yarn & see that it is not made of wool or acrylic, but that contained in the interlocking fibers of the
yarn is everything you have ever felt & known & believed, & wrapped up with all of this is everything you might one
day feel & know & believe. You hold the armful of yarn close to you. It is heavy, heavier than you would have
thought. Do I have to do it now?  you say. The thief says, No, not now. But soon. You say, How will I know when I have
finished?  The thief says, You won’t.

Source: Poetry (March 2022)