I wrote a poem in my dream last night. A friend whom I haven’t seen in several years was walking down a staircase and several people whom I didn’t recognize were milling around. I leaned over the top railing and shouted to my friend, “Revise with me!” and then I called out this poem. She stopped to listen, but never replied.
If we start at the same time from the same place with my right hand touching your left our feet will move together perfectly.
I have never glimpsed you in the delicate powder of cabbage butterflies flickering across fields, nor on the frail wings of earthy brown sparrows who peck and scrabble at sidewalks, not even in the gold and rosy braid painted along the horizon every morning. But in the torrential battering of rain pelting grass blades and windows, flooding streets and cities, crashing over bridges and shifting houses from foundations, you shine.
Twice each day cars converge on the street out front as if there is no other journey to travel from east to west. Their greed to gain asphalt is visible from the window, how they press frontside to backside eager to move forward. Pedestrians prance and stride on the sidewalks, free in the self-deception that they are not on the same sojourn.
Drowned cities spanning the globe from John Franklin to Roald Amundsen, all claim to be Atlantis. Each one shows off their stone arch. Each one bears a painted image of warriors still in battle, or women collecting jugs of water despite being in the deepest fathoms of it. Each one declares authenticity, holds up their ruins and begs to be remembered, as all of us ask to be remembered, to be loved for eternity: I was here. I was here. Please never forget me.
“. . . there occurred violent earthquakes and floods; and in a single day and night of misfortune all your warlike men in a body sank into the earth, and the island of Atlantis in like manner disappeared in the depths of the sea.” – Plato