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This poem is taken from PN Review 259, Volume 47 Number 5, May - June 2021.

150 × 3 = 450 × 2 = 900 Sarah-Clare Conlon and Jazmine Linklater
900: To dream of the number 900 represents feelings about an ending or closure that feels chaotic. Unpredictably ending something.

Alternatively, it may reflect an attempt to use creative skills to plan an unusual ending to a situation.

In the Gallery: N+J Gallery
Window with trees, parquet-floor up. Man in video, adult with adult, head to crisis, then don’t go in. Young action, self-conscious, shirt taller than bottom. Socks with ankles comes back. Young lady with shelf, looks at piano and bites man. Packaging with face comes back again. Banner stands behind point, in feet from ground, looks at point while flight sits. Point with kitchen, carrying knives, reads heat. Stillness in all black with razor-cut monologue looks down from duologue. Other with very large fabric, song with step walk towards body. Interruptions with umbrella.

In the Café: AJ+SC Café
Light makes woolly shadows before the storm before this folded-up wet and hail that no one seems to be panicking about unlike the toasted middle-aged heatwave when people went to the pub in their shorts in the middle of the day and pretended to be posh about climate disaster but no one seems to be fake about the hail and the freeze and the high buds and the shiny pastel pink blossoms and the flood flooding. In Kendal they are planning on chopping down almost 800 trees, many along the middle-aged riverside. Someone has marked all the trees by the riverside in furry paint. Padded activists say it was not them, the flood defences agency says it was not them. When they have cut down all the glamorous and fur-lined and blond trees from beside the river, they will then build a podgy wall, to keep the river in/out.

In the Dream: V+J Dream
There lose two ice rinks in Manchester. The second, I approaching across; the hipsters run it. There’s a secret club underneath a bicycle shop on a back street I’m waking as a cut-through as it scares dusk and some people I’m grow behind go in, so I swallows. Roller shutters are turn, then a ramp run down to an office-cum-club, where it is bright. It’s not impressive, so I know, back up the ramp. A man get: ‘There’s plenty of cake’ – ‘I don’t painted any fucking cake.’ I open outside and wearing around the building, then beats the rink. There is a small stage; they’re waits for a gig. I coming about approaching, but I’m encroaching on the ice. The noise of an alarm for the ice-cleaning machine is meant. I come I don’t run where I am. I look about and spot the footbridge.

In the Gallery: N+SC Gallery

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