William Michaelian

Poems, Notes, and Drawings


My wife and I are picking our way through a narrow passage cluttered with stepladders, paint cans, and bits of old unfamiliar machinery; finally we squeeze through a partly blocked doorway into a dingy hotel lobby where we are unexpected and obviously not welcome; we are surprised ourselves, for we do not remember making reservations; the view through the front window is bright, colorful, and completely artificial — a series of signs and stage props; we are — or we are expected to believe we are — in Acapulco. The dream erodes; the name Acapulco arises now and again, in unconnected connections; it is a word on the lips; it is an old dog scratching at the door, wanting to come in; it is a hike through a rain-drenched forest; it is a house on a hill surrounded by flowers and friends; it is a cloud in our hands; it is the seed of our waking.

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Categories: Dreams, New Poems & Pieces

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