i dream they’ve flooded the louvre
a broken water-main, or somesuch thing-
all the paintings lined up against the wall
on sale, half-off due to water damage..
the archivist unlocks the dam,
the key to a tide of memory, ancestral, karmic or otherwise..
from what the marvelous mme. la comtesse de melusine
has to say about cellular memory, and water-
i have the distinct feeling there will be more searching to do..
my last few days have been both exhausting and enlightening..

i have been altogether
working too hard.
playing too hard.
and i cannot complain,
in fact- i realized in a giddy flash yesterday
how blessed i am to be here at this turning
the endings are behind me-
this is a time of beginnings
and i can feel that i am guided in some sense,
the star in the night.
i am blessed by the company i keep,
by the gift of new acquaintance
and old souls finding each other..
the marvelous mme.
a case in point with her enlightening synchronicities
undeniable charm, and divinatory skill..
also mme.
who sent the loveliest package
filled to the brim with her fantastic dolls
and a birthday care package for me that
made my heart swell..
you are so thoughtful, my dear-
i love that you are in mama-mode,
i so dearly needed a little mothering,
as lately, i have been feeling a bit
like some ragged lost nestling..

another fragment:
setting: another suburban neighborhood
(why is this place the landscape for my dreams of late?)
i note that there is a street named nazilist street
(or something to that effect..)
it refers to lists of names and places, to the archives, the archivist..
little black boys on bikes are daring each other to race down it,
past the pink gingerbread house with the american flag..
i knock on a door, i want to know why
all the streets in this neighborhood are named after concentration camps.
dachau pass, treblinka way, auschwitz circle
you get the picture.
i am told again the (true) story
a boy i met the other night told me of his family,
living in a smallish village during the war-
his grandfather was given the choice;
come work as an archivist for us, in dachau
or go there as a prisoner, die there-
you and your family.
what would you do, given the choice?
i sat shivering on the balcony in the chill night air
listening to his story, i watch where the lines
can be drawn, where they tangle, and no longer make any sense..
the last dream of the rotting house,
the broken beams, central: the heart of the house
is dead, pieces of it come away in your hands..
but we try, we try to replce the stained glass frames,
seal the cracks in the planks where eyes can peer..
what will come of this?