No one puts store in dreams now
the way our elders used to do—
Teeth falling out of a mouth
like dice out of a cup: your life
is in gravest danger. Wings of a moth
or a butterfly grazing your cheek: the dead
have remembered something they need to say.
Flying over a sleeping town and touching
the bell-pull in the tower: soon it will
be morning; soon, the night is going.
In response to Via Negativa: November dusk.