In my dream last night,

a grand piano falls from the sky

playing a tune I never heard before,

a melancholy melody, rooted

in a time before I knew my name.

I sail out of Murray Harbor

with Barnacle Jim at the helm—

my eyes glued to the binnacle,

following a flock of seagulls

chasing a huge Bluefin tuna.

We come about in a strong wind

and land at the Pictou Beach resort.

It starts to rain. The dance hall

is deserted, except for a busboy

and young waitress who play

Heart and Soul over and over

and over again.

On this rainy summer afternoon,

they’re moved by bodily heat

into the privacy of a storage

room— innocent and unsure

of whether they’re cming

or going— mutual virginities

fly out the window like carrier

pigeons released to deliver

classified messages.