1, 2, 3

BY JON SWAN
At 3, first
nothing occurs.
Completely at sea.
After this has gone on
for a time, slowly
your eyes and your ears
take it in. Then,
though still in the dark,
this hum ... a rhythm
of waves sloshing in
that divides then. Divides
underneath in a street
you can’t see into cars,
cars moving. As they multiply
back to the memorized
sum of traffic
something, there —
apparently classic,
unrecognizably tall —
simply flutters.
It looks like a column
of fluted stone.
Supporting a temple
of which you see only
this much,
it is sacred and gray.
It stiffens and shrinks
into curtain. The curtain
stands still by its window.
Now only those guts
spread out on the ceiling
remain to be read
by the augur. Safely
then back to sleep.
The room is in shape
for waking.