The architecture of my dreams: hallways.
Red velvet or broad as betting parlors,
the spaces signal transition—always—
and sometimes I come to a subtle door
that opens into a dark and small maze.
It’s familiar but not particular.
I begin squeezing down the labyrinth.
It is as wide as I am. Yellow earth.
Unease rises. I crouch. Ahead, the depth.
I know the secret—I have all my days!
I backtrack from the anonymous earth,
shut the basement door, return to the hall.
Hors d’oeuvres. The opera. No way to assert
what was...where I went. Must wake to recall
the dark, the door, the secret I forget.
Through that grave, I wonder if there’s a caul.
I think through the nothing there is the all.
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