Trying to recall the plot / And characters we dreamed, / What life was like / Before the morning came, / We are seldom satisfied, / And even then / There is no way of knowing / If what we know is true. / Something nameless / Hums us into sleep, / Withdraws, and leaves us in / A place that seems / Always vaguely familiar. / Perhaps it is because / We take the props / And fixtures of our days / With us into the dark, / Assuring ourselves / We are still alive. / And yet nothing here is certain; / Landscapes merge with one another, houses / Are never where they should be, / Doors and windows / Sometimes open out / To other doors and windows, / Even the person / Who seems most like ourselves / Cannot be counted on, / For there have been: Too many times when he, / Like everything else, has done / The unexpected. / And as the night wears on, / The dim allegory of ourselves / Unfolds, and we / Feel dreamed by someone else, / A sleeping counterpart, / Who gathers in / The darkness of his person / Shades of the real world. / Nothing is clear; / We are not ever sure / If the life we live there / Belongs to us. / Each night it is the same; / Just when we’re on the verge / Of catching on, / A sense of our remoteness / Closes in, and the world / So lately seen / Gradually fades from sight. / We wake to find the sleeper / Is ourselves / And the dreamt-of is someone who did / Something we can’t quite put / Our finger on, / But which involved a life / We are always, we feel, / About to discover.