I loved your poem. It says so much;it forces a second and third reading. Thanks.

its kinda 19th centuryish.

We listen to each other's dreams, rearrange the furniture of our confessions-- we stack all of the chairs on tables, our midnight barricade-- and stockpile bottled water, like the taste of our own sour tongues. The keep is crumbling, it has been abandoned since the georgian era, and ireland's been crumbling at least as long, if we consider a nation to be nothing more than language (we bless the tree and curse the tree). tourist necks are craning (but more like chickens on a chopping block than cranes) to kiss the blarney stone, and a middle aged man is ordering them down, down, because he is always short of patience and besides, they don't speak english, and because strictly speaking the stone IS down, if we ourselves are up on it. Freud listens to Pharaoh Hatshetsup's dream, in which ten-thousand Viennese scientists arrive at the pyramids and painstakingly dismantle stone by stone, pink-faced and sweating, nervous as if it had been another nuclear bomb; and then the seven dwarves arrive, and carve a new tomb directly in the basement rock of the Grand Canyon. Hatshetsup dreams that she is the spirit of liberty leading the people over the barricades, out the of Louvre. She dreams that she is actually Anna Freud, as a small child, crawling under psychoanalytic couches as children will tend to do, being of about the right size for such enterprises; and then she dreams that she has grown to a tremendous size, bigger than Alice or Manhattan, standing astride Long Island with a mop in her hand because it's already past closing time, and the ocean's just a bucket of water. We divide the gratuity, and of course Dante insists on his extra portion, obelisks strewing their shadows across Roman squares-- and the kitchen staff are singing in Mayan, as they pass around an empty bottle in the wind. Somebody makes a gag about playing for keeps. Hatshetshup writes it all down, in the guise of Sigmund Freud, and imagines what it might have looked like in hieroglyphs, lit only by a single candle and with all of the stone darkness of Manhattan piled upon you. After the Viennese scientists finish their task of disassembling the Great Pyramid, they proceed to the Hotel Bar to celebrate, and find that it is also in ruins. Hatshetsup says the sands are always gathering, if for nothing else but to dry the ink.