Sitting on the darkened porch I doze off, and wander paths that resemble places I've been but which are reassembled by synapses half asleep (if synapses can be said to ever sleep?) to become the latest form of those places I imagined on other nights of too little sleep and too much to drink, the aftermath of adventures through the city where I spoke to no one, not even my actual self.
The reassembled songs are full of hints and suggestions, turn this way, turn that, look over here. Starting awake I open my eyes and see the familiar shapes of the pines silhouetted against the less-dark sky. The moon is soon rising, the less-darkness says. By then the other world will be gone (it fades even now) and I'll never see it by moonlight. Sad. It would have been beautiful, I'm sure.
There Is No City That Does Not Dream
-by Anne Michaels
There is no city that does not dream
from its foundations. The lost lake
crumbling in the hands of brickmakers,
the floor of the ravine where light lies broken
with the memory of rivers. All the winters
stored in the geologic
garden. Dinosaurs sleep in the subway
at Bloor and Shaw, a bed of bones
under the rumbling track. The storm
that lit the city with the voltage
of spring, when we were eighteen
on the clean earth. The ferry ride in the rain,
wind wet with wedding music and everything that
sings in the carbon of stone and bone
like a page of love, wind-lost from a hand, unread.