This dream

Monumental grass,
placecards of wonder--
retreat in the vacuum
of snow
retreat
in the flavor of night

retreat in the style of shining retreat
in the stillness
of sudden sound

the mist leaking on the glowing
brick, the monumental grass

the murmurs of autumn
the whirling muscles of night

greet the new flame
with spangles of innocence
leave the ache behind

am I the last of my kind
who rode a trolley
who wore red wool,
who watched the lantern sway
until the chant began?

If the light smacking the air
spinning your mirror
were made of rooftops
and a questioning stare

behind the heaped bows,
the feathers would drip with inky blood

while feral adventurers sand the hull,
mumbling in neon.

Hammers bathe the dazed lobby
with scarred nerves.
If no one sleeps,
whose dream can this be?