I dreamed

The moon is ninety-five percent full and someone has stapled the number to a Gulf trucking manifest, forty-four crates of it, and the crates are sweating because dew point does that now to paperwork. A driver I can’t see keeps stamping each crate with 95% ILLUMINATED and the ink runs before it dries, humid enough that the figure smears into 59, then into nothing.

I’m meant to be counting the crates but I keep failing at the count, because the fog has eaten the loading dock the way it ate the sky. Somewhere behind the fog a truck idles, headlights doing nothing useful, and I think: that’s the actual moon, that engine noise, that’s ninety-five percent of something I’m taking on faith. I try to write the number down before it slides off the page and my pen is a thermometer instead, reading 17.0, dew point, over and over, refusing to spell anything else.