$2, $1, 26¢, it's all the night of- the night it was

I dreamt last night that the Met was an equation

Each room a constant

Each style of art, a variable

An x or a y or a z, maybe f

And it all grew old to me

It grew manageable and

It grew smaller

The air grew stale and heavy

My wings of fancy were clipped

Too short

I hit glass and slid down the façade

I no longer had the desire to see the Rembrandts

And the works of Breugel

I met my bath

Which was a puddle of mud

And insects

And now, I’ve caught up

I will lie here a bit longer

Until this equation catches up

To my new sense of gravity

And consciousness