Knowing things and not knowing them, which is better? Water forgets it’s part of the Yerba Buena fountain, the icicle remembers its cold sorrow. All day I am knitting my mind into decorative doilies and practical pot-holders, yet keep dreaming I am sewn into someone else’s quilt, my skin pulled taut by the curved, urgent needles of invisible seamstresses. How can I plan the place to which my sleep will kidnap me? I duck my shoulders under a dark archway and cross my fingers, the habit of religion helping me hunch. The garden pillars point up without an instructional plaque, calm as orthodox monks being robbed at gunpoint; the tai chi class I am passing on my way into the conflicting stripes of the SF Moma flows in some other time zone than mine, their hips and hands pressing into a clear honeyed liquid composed of moments. The contemporary Jewish museum defies gravity the way a koan escapes closure, stock-still as a dredel stuck spinning on a Hanukkah card, the facile rabbi stumped by revelation. A box closes, its little tail tucked under its feet; who knows what it might contain? The child closes his eyes hugging a parent. Praying hands seem empty, but who knows? I go in under the archway, through spinning glass.