Self Portrait, in a Collective Dream

Somewhere in the course of a day, I try to find ledges 
on which to rest. Yesterday, I brought out bookbinding 
tools and a box of ephemera— things that caught my eye
or were part of something else once important, but it 
was the seemingly inconsequential thing I wanted to save.

The lettering on the side of a pasta box, a piece of vellum
from an envelope; a rivet case with a pull-out tab like a drawer. 
I wish I could call my daughter in what people used to call  
the old country. Or rather, I wish she would answer my calls.
But here it is, another year-end approaching. We are all

no longer young. I have troubling dreams where we lie down 
on a road stretching from the front yard into the dark blue 

distance. Who are all these people crowded together, their 
shoulders touching, waiting for some kind of sign?

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