“In my dream last night, I was blind.”
My student’s baffled eyes address me:
he never remembered dreams before; now he does,
“Sophocles and Freud will do that,” I reassure,
thinking how once you talk of dreams,
they come speeding from forgotten landscapes
like cars on country roads going way too fast for town.
“I could tell you what Freud would say.”
“Don’t,” he says. “I don’t want to know.”
With dreams like that, he must have done the reading.
I’m glad, then worried.
Like the priest whining Thebes is sick, I’ve said look; think.
Now, inside his mind, Sophocles shuffles about,
stacking spinning wheels,
peering into cerebral ravines,
scrawling riddles across the damp gray walls.
He wants to be a pathologist, he’s told me.
He’ll look at cells through microscopes,
reading the future in their light-soaked shapes.
But first there’s me, muttering of Teiresias.
I scrutinize his blank blue eyes unsure
of what I see, or want to see.