for borges

as the night wore on, i dreamed about the muse lying on a patch of evening meadow scattered with fallen fireflowers. Everything else spoke of stillness, but my silent muse seemed to have a story to tell in his lonesome silence. In that dream, I saw him dreaming about me too. The mutual dreaming began series of dreams of me dreaming of him dreaming of me and so on. That moved me to smile. Somewhere in this sleepless city, my dream took me to a place I have never been, but--because of my beloved muse--is always, always familiar to me.