Question of the Week: What's your Proustian moment (i.e., is there a smell or taste that evokes a particular memory)? Click here to share.
COPYRIGHT Poem-a-Day Collection by Knopf. Compilation copyright 2009 by Knopf. All Rights Reserved. Sharing not permitted.
There is No City that Does Not Dream
There is no city that does not dream from its foundations. The lost lake crumbling in the hands of the brickmakers, the floor of the ravine where light lies broken with the memory of rivers. All the winters stored in that geologic garden. Dinosaurs sleep in the subway at Bloor and Shaw, a bed of bones under the rumbling track. The storm that lit the city with the voltage of spring, when we were eighteen on the clean earth. The ferry ride in the rain, wind wet with wedding music and everything that sings in the carbon of stone and bone like a page of love, wind-lost from a hand, unread.