Quarantine/SSRI Dreams Nos. 1, 2, 4, 5, 6, and 8


I dreamed that I wrote

                                a poem

for someone inappropriate

                                who needed


I dreamed that they later

                                shared it

with the world and it felt ok

                                with everyone

                but me.


Sometimes a sprawling

resort on a cliff where

I do not belong and live

in shadows, sprints, and



There is another country

I travel to in some dreams.

There is an airport in my

shadowland I have spent

many days running late to,

many days on a train to.

I wonder if I am on my way

to someone else’s shadow

and all of our ports and all

of our trains look the same

and we will never grant each

other entry, asylum, bondage.


I will swim up

and down the floors

of the house I

grew up and learned

everything important in.

I find your corpse

floating in the attic

I don’t remember

you ever visiting.


Like a cathedral cut from stone

my favorite exhibit in a museum

of the other country I visit in my

dreams appears before me with

heights and depths I can never

hope to absorb or comprehend.


I move through the levels, mansions, and

rooms like Kowloonon

on the run in my other country with dank

flower sweating in hand.

If I could smell it would be Genoa docks

and wine breath.

If I weren’t saving the terpenes these legs

would never move.

Thomas Ketchersid

Thomas Ketchersid is an unpublished writer and public education administrator in weird-ass Fort Worth, TX.

NOVUS Literary and Arts Journal
Lebanon, TN