Red brick sidewalks
and white stone buildings, clots of people, some strolling,
others sitting; talking to each other; or,
talking into rectangles of plastic that talk back. Friend,
the bus today is an old Chinese woman. Small-boned,
high cheekbones, straight black
with paths of gray drawn back through a green jade clip. She talks
to the driver in brittle words.
I awake trying
to recall what I'd just dreamed. Why is this reality and that a dream? If I'm cut
here, don't I also bleed there? Yet each day I set out trusting
my senses are describing the world.