In my dream I’m walking with my love S. and we meet in Leo D. in the street. It is night, in Portland; he informs us of an event. It isn’t exactly a production, but all manner of artists and actors are there. He leads us toward a warehouse building; through a momentarily open door I can see Alex R. reclined, but attentive, in an armchair. The closed door that we reach has a square translucent window, slightly amber-orange with almost-a-letter formed from strips of tape – perhaps an H, or a T. Leo opens and we enter, and the room is arrayed with people we want to see. I make out Maria and Brett, several actors from local theater, some other musicians and writers. Marco F. comes by to say hello, and that we must get together; he is busy, there’s apparently a kitchen set up for the event and he’s roasting something in the back. As we settle into our seats a sort of hymn starts, and I’m familiar enough to sing along – it isn’t quite dadaist but it’s definitely an artistic hymn, intentionally symbolic but not esoteric. As we sing I see, and hear, poet Walt C. off to the left of everyone, his voice at once shrill and gentle, looking straight ahead. A few people are murmuring about him, and I start to tell S. about him, and explain that he is dead. For a moment there seems to be an attempt at a dream-explanation: this must be someone supremely talented actually imitating him for the gathering, probably as a tribute, as if that would make more sense. But deep down I know the truth, and as if on cue, some of the artist-crew appear on that side of the room and begin tugging smoothly forward, in ritual gesture, an enormous curtain which goes all the way down the rows of seats, leaving Walt on the other side, and the rest of us together. We keep singing, and Walt keeps singing — he’s no longer with us, but we can hear him.