When I slept, I went to the void I knew in night terrors
as a child, waking sleep, walking not quite awake.
The CN tower was burning, and the families
of identical townhomes, neighbours we do not know,
all crouching together toward it. Thick drops
splashed down. Not rain: it made the children writhe.
I know this dream of death leading life beyond recall.
One wishes instantly to help drive the knife home.
To make it short.
The whole house smelled of wet smoke and smoulder,
I lashed from room to room muttering, thinking I was awake,
scaring my wife, looking for the fire, the open window.
Stumbling to the porch, I found the whole city choked in smoke,
the streetlights barely visible, and in the morning no sun.
I would have to drive too far to get out from under it,
so instead we drove to Canadian Tire for high-end air purifiers,
and a set of deeply discounted German kitchen knives.
Dan Knauss writes, edits, and tries to perform acts of humane, open-source webcraft. He is increasingly unsuccessful in suppressing poetry and other useless literary output.