In my dream, I held a catalog of brooches, and of drawer pulls. Page after page, image after image: rows of images on every page. Everything had rhinestones. Everything sparkled and enticed. "That was a good dream," my poet friend said to me today. He was right. It was a good dream. I know this even though I don't remember anything but the catalog's presence and what was in it. And what was in it: things that connect, things that gather together, things that open other things out to one or that pull them together and hold them loosely. I have a grey cape that this week's warm weather has allowed me to wear as a coat, and in it I feel like swooping along roads and hallways with greater alacrity than usual, just to feel this expanse of grey wool swing out behind me. Late this afternoon I realized that I wanted one of the brooches from my dream, to hold the cape together as I swept through town.