xxxxxxi.

at night, and in the odd corners
of the day--

I dream a city, falling into the sun,
the lights, rising,

to touch the stars, and a long
boulevard, and quiet corner,

and the lights lit, under the eaves,
yes, I dream the eucalyptus

bowing, to touch the ground, and
the water rising, from

the dead leaves, and I lay down,
on the broken fabric,

and I do not wake, but the dawn
falls over my face,

and my eyes open, and I do not
wake, because sleep

has come, and stays, and walks
with me--and who knows

what the day will bring
and I do not wake,

the mulch crumbles
under my feet, and the pepperfruit

crushed between my fingers, astringent
the dove murmurs

in consternation--but I will not wake,
and the houses slope,

and fall into the street, and the street
curves, cuts the hills, in two--

and I do not wake, but I climb,
and the manzanita clings to my boots,

and brushes the dusty ground