I stacked the cups before me on
the desk. Echoing notes
came off the layered terraces,
struck out of curves of stone

that arched themselves for miles. And through
one door, water had filled
itself into the room, which now
could not be opened up.

And out the other it had changed:
when I walked through, a stair
turned back on itself, catching at
my feet. Instead, a round

field grew, circled with seats and lights
and, in the center, two
opposing sets of standing poles.
That is: a cricket ground.

But we were stacking cups; at least,
I did. You stared at me
and frowned. And crossed your arms. And tried
to speak, the way one does

in dreams: more as intent than sound.
“Do you think if I tried
to live more in myself, and less
in waiting misery—”

So it went on; I gave advice
less lofty than my work.
Til all at once you stood, and said,
in hot, reproachful tones:

“Before I read Homestuck, I thought
Vriska must be so nice
and kind, and also helpful, and
a joy to everyone

who met her— all because you said
we’re exactly the same!”
The wickets creaked. Inside, the room
set places for the game.