You dream you sleep inside a drum, all echo
and vibration, inside the dream you dream
of other rooms like countries you’ve not been to
where you arrive in dark mist or in sunshine with
dark mist inside it, where money’s the color
of bright jewels, where you realize you
brought the wrong shoes, where in a mirror in
the dream hotel you see not you but
a shadow self, the one who packed those shoes,
the one who–on the basis of imaginary
information–imagined you’d be dancing.
Always imagine you’ll be dancing.