In my dream I circle one of six white sheets on a table.

In my dream the fight to escape requires me to smash a heavy ceramic mug into the face of a guard while singing.

In my dream it’s Market Street again. Through some hoardings I can see that the building’s lobby has been hollowed out, all three stories of it.

In my dream a cafe where a block of soft mauve shapes hovers to the side.

In my dream you dial it back for multicolored. And food.

In my dream he is Momus in orange.

In my dream I’ve got an old digital camera with a mode that produces pictures like grainy, smeared xeroxes. I love using it and while shooting the dawn on Canal Street, I  see the post-club crowd lined up for cinnamon rolls from the magazine shop on the corner of Broadway: each roll is fat, impastoed with cream cheese icing and studded with blueberries. I’m getting one with coffee.

In my dream the season is brown and I am trying to preserve it.

In my dream: a street corner and a fragment of a song, hummed.

In my dream he sells locks for canvas bank pouches in the back of the shop. The cigars are so dried out they’ve become flecks of leaf in the package. This, the last open store on Canal Street, doesn’t have many days left .