He dreamed Sephardic Jews in single file across a lunar dawnscape.
The image fled at the bell’s first lazy peal and
he hurried into words the fall-off and the fade,
though later he could summon it easily enough
as bowler-hatted Bolivians picnicking the broad downslope
of the western Atacama. There was no one
remaining whom he could safely ask
and it was destined (the dream) to fall into disuse.