In last night’s dream trees came close—near as window panes and I pressed my tired eyes against them. The heavens turned silently. When I woke, the first words on my lips were “watch what you say.” The rhetoric of trees, I thought, so formally complete. I remembered a line by William Gass: “Culture has completed its work when everything is a sign.” Trees in a dream, I thought, possessors of consummate poems.
There are lots of men my age with even less reason to like themselves. Was it I who sat up writing in the weak morning light?