I read the label on the dream over and over. Warning: Corrosive to skin, emotions, leather shoes, memory. I pace the garden path barefoot so long, you could stir the earth with a spoon. Still my feet burn. In the field beyond the mortgage, goats breathe curls of steam into overpriced bales of hay bought on Amazon. I clear plastic out of a river with strangers, fail to reduce screen time, meet friends for bitter coffees in the rain. The town flowerpresses me between wet paving slabs while I hope-scroll, pictures of fields slowly burning the skin from my fingertips.