Do you remember the dream?
the one of the many ends.
it leaned on the wall
as if waiting for someone else
to finish my sentence.

a body—without organs—asked for tea,
though didn’t seem to know
what to do with it.

kept writing in the margins;
later I saw the pages looked like
someone had tried to mark exits
on a map that led just back inside.

you once told me to stop underlining,
that the lines were heavier than the words.
maybe you were right.

maybe the dream had the right
when it got bored of standing still
& rather told me
how I’ve mistaken many hitchhikers
for uninvited guests.

and how I’ve been collecting
the 'wrong' scale of things:
a room remembered as a continent,
a gesture novembered into dust,
I put it back & call it nothing.