Matt Dennison Aberration Old old dream of mother and I dragging an old wooden trunk down a cowboy-town street under weak yellow lights. It is cold, though I do not feel it, though I can see the haloed cold. Heavy trunk, wide streets, she in old man's coat, me dream-dressed and dragging importance, of some sort, somewhere—knowing only this town is not it—is only the aberration through which we must pass, heads down.