Last night’s dream is watermarked stationery,
the sudden and unexpected architecture
of your day. Climb inside, says the deaf man
with binoculars, and the ceiling opens up
into a wave of calendar pages, each one
a reward you can’t reach. Fix it, he pleads.
You don’t feel like repacking old ideas.
Sequential, he demands. His hand
is unfinished, three fingers missing.
He can only point like a gun.
It’s just a day like any other,
a deaf man in binoculars
with you as you butter your toast,
tune in your favorite radio station.
His hand, what did it mean?
Learn a second language, you think
as you tear off yesterday’s
page on the calendar.