Dreamt I was dropped off at the beautiful river. There were many bends and pools as the river rose and fell through the wide expanse. The river was so beautiful, and so known for its beauty, that tourists left their luggage in the river itself (there was no evidence of hotels in the area). One had to walk through the river to find one’s suitcase or duffel bag (there were, for some reason, many large, blue hockey bags) and one was expected to walk. Next to their luggage a family of five had left a bag of apples that were spilling into the water and that’s when I realized everyone was not only leaving their luggage, but their apples too. I nabbed a few and left the river for a trail.

At a ridge there was a cabin where I was greeted by a bearded man. It was Walt Whitman. He invited me inside. Thinking this was an omen from the poetry gods, I accepted his invitation. But rather than go inside, I discovered the canvas shoulder bag I was carrying was a Walt Whitman printed canvas shoulder bag. That he didn’t really live in the cabin, in fact, that he didn’t actually exist. So nobody lived there, and nobody wrote poetry.