WHAT FOLLOWS EVENING
by BARBARA EINZIG

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Night suspends color in its turning away, in its
bringing up of whiteness in darkness. Daisies
are iridescent in moonlight. This heightening
is not rising of blood or an expression to a face.
This is the way dream people become sensible.

Sleep suspends a daytime body, giving the weightless
weight, by stealing from a daytime body its daytime
gravity. This is not the enlivening of ghosts.
A shadow moves this way with a hand over paper,
with a body over pavement. This is a dream house
with clear wide windows. If these windows are
opened, they open into bright day. A dreamer
becomes a sensation of falling, and having entered
day by mistake, awakes suddenly.

Now I remember the Memling portraits -- face of
a woman or a man close up, study in steady character
occurring as a flower in the face -- and, framed
by a window without glass, in a space equal, or
existing equally through proportion, fields roads
hills beyond. This is not a memory going backwards.
This is a painting you may or may not know.

Night paints the face of a dreamer the way a loved
one sleeping looks. Night turns away from that
which the sleeper turns, as she turns her head
on a pillow. This is the way dream people become
sensible. In busy streets, noticing, they brush
past each other, and may or may not recognize each
other. A dreamer becomes a sensation of falling,
and having entered day by accident, awakes suddenly.
In one stroke, spell or die is cast and broken.
This is a painting you may or may not know.

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Copyright © 1979 and 1994 by Barbara Einzig

First published as a poster for a reading at Woodland Pattern Arts Center.

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