Last night, I dreamt
of an old friend picking
up smoking, cigarettes
with the look of pencils
(because she wanted to be
a teacher, you see).
I dreamt of people
I did not know.

Last night, I dreamt,
aside from her smoking lead,
of a table mired in the middle
of nowhere, all of us seated:
just a circle of forgotten things.
Names, dates, faces, friends,
spaces – between our chairs,
each drag of a cigarette,
when we try to speak.

Among the ashes
rises a tribal smoke,
like children, in a morning
class: unsteadily,
uneasily. These signals,
I continue to see:
call placed with no receiver,
dreams of quiet revival,
a slow stir that rouses none.
A fleeting, meaningless dream.