Strange
Suppose you dream of an old friend,
an old home, an old path where you
used to put your feet. Someplace rich
with wood and leather and books, or
quiet and grassy where a cool breeze
blows. Someone who wears a jersey
or a cardigan sweater, someone who
smokes or with whom you disagree.
Suppose you dream about the things
far beyond the periphery of your life,
with no logical connection to where
and with whom you now spend your
time, so removed, in fact, as to have
been dug up from a grave, a deep cut,
something from deep in the archives.
Suppose you have a dream so odd
and mysterious that lingers like fog,
as real and unreal as the feel of an
ancient language carved on a mossy
stone and revealed to you in the deep
grooves you trace with your fingertips.
What's to be done but wonder that
such things fail to wear away from us,
that we have caverns left to explore.
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