Frozen ragweed slipped into my dream, laid bare the shadows between what I say and how I act, bemoaned my need for superfluous comfort, though accepted it nodding because it is and is less and because long weekends through dark glasses because as ragweed it has a sliver of omnipresence because by virtue of being frozen it has retained its shape while changing its form and because it is the ragweed of my dream it is the ragweed of mid-Atlantic pathways. because being defined by its mid-Atlanticness it finds the same home in my dream because it lays in the meadow with its brothers the humidity and insects, because it is burrobrush because ragweed invaded Europe from Mexico because ragweed as reverse-colonialism is important to any dream I have because ragweed is ambrosia because it renders my dreams immortal because it erases any pretense of context in favor of the truths that exist beyond frozen ragweed.