I.

The architect hears

herself snore, but sleeps on, curled in a tent

in a dale…

II.

The creepiest things, she knows, don’t necessarily

creep. Stand still, she says anyway, dream-wandering through some city

on a lake—you must stand still.

III.

She likes to emphasize the place of line

in lineage—that connection to fixed points in the past, so as

to thwart wobblings.

She thinks hydraulic barricades, Swiss

boat rides, but the stoplights are discombobulated, the islands

all spilling over. The architect is young but has spent some time

and has spent some time…

IV.

Fat sidewalks, long walls. A grill

with a salmon on it. The architect trembles, half-woozy, she carries

her worries, she drops them and yanks them.

The city announces itself.

Its street names, its river. The architect is handed an envelope, feels

graced—she wavers, cuts through Daley Plaza.

At five she fasts. At six

she snacks.

V.

The meetings are cancelled: the hail. The trolleys

are cancelled.

The meetings concerned the trolleys. The architect

is concerned, she blushes, gets flagged down by foreigners…

VI.

On the 95^th floor of the Hancock building, the architect and some long-lost

friends from Lausanne are sharing grilled salmon.

The architect is wondering

why she hears a goldfinch—