William Michaelian

Poems, Notes, and Drawings

The Ancients

The dream I was going to write this morning has evaporated. Last night, it was so vivid when I awoke that I was sure I would not forget it, especially since I stayed awake for several minutes afterward. Or was that interval of waking also part of the dream? Just as I finished writing the last sentence, I heard a cat screeching somewhere in the darkness. There — there it is again. And yet I distinctly remember lying there with my heart pounding, surprised to find I had been asleep for only a little over an hour. Now, what does that tell me? It tells me that I should wonder, perhaps, why on earth there is a clock in the room. What does knowing the hour have to do with sleep? Did the ancients sleep with sundials in their rooms? If I were an ancient, I would sleep by an open, uncovered window, through which I could look out at the moon and stars. The sky is an uncovered window. The stars are lamps in faraway rooms. Beside them, someone is reading, thinking, remembering, wishing, grieving, believing, singing — look up, look out, see what is beyond, seeing is imagining, my love. Or am I dreaming now? — dreaming it is morning? dreaming, that last night, I dreamed?

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Categories: Dreams, New Poems & Pieces

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