The dream tower lifts itself towards a night sky
that, like all ceilings, is only there as part of the frame,
for all the needless cavorting that takes place there.
By dint of its hoist, the tower lifts itself above
and out of backyards once seen from the train
so that, from time to time, you might catch a glimpse
of a person you once knew, maybe even loved,
who should, by virtue of their being dead,
not be gesturing at you from some corner of the edifice,
phrases or faces attached like medallions
to every angle on the lattice. Sometimes two people
who have punched or torn one another’s faces into bloody meat
force you to leap from the tower in dismay
as you realise how dispassionately you and the surrounding crowd
are watching the gruesome suffering that goes on and on.
If the tower seems disjointed, if parts of the frame seem to be missing,
it may be because they are melting away as dawn approaches.
The logbooks of your long journey, the boulevards and highways
your dream has followed disappear
just as your recollection tries to follow the route
just as you try to remember the dream’s small details,
as though a glimpse your dream offered you
of one spire of yellow dock at daybreak
was enough of a reason for you to wake with the thought
‘today will be a better day’. Once you realize
this is not a crane and does no heavy lifting
you may wake.
