Dreams by Mark Strand

Trying to recall the plot And characters we dreamed,      What life was like Before the morning came, We are seldom satisfied,      And even then There is no way of knowing If what we know is true.      Something nameless Hums us into sleep, Withdraws, and leaves us in      A place that seems Always vaguely familiar. Perhaps it is because      We take the props And fixtures of our days With us into the dark,      Assuring ourselves We are still alive. And yet Nothing here is certain;      Landscapes merge With one another, houses Are never where they should be,      Doors and windows Sometimes open out To other doors and windows,      Even the person Who seems most like ourselves Cannot be counted on,      For there have been Too many times when he, Like everything else, has done      The unexpected. And as the night wears on, The dim allegory of ourselves      Unfolds, and we Feel dreamed by someone else, A sleeping counterpart,      Who gathers in The darkness of his person Shades of the real world.      Nothing is clear; We are not ever sure If the life we live there      Belongs to us. Each night it is the same; Just when we’re on the verge      Of catching on, A sense of our remoteness Closes in, and the world      So lately seen Gradually fades from sight. We wake to find the sleeper      Is ourselves And the dreamt-of is someone who did Something we can’t quite put      Our finger on, But which involved a life We are always, we feel,      About to discover.