The onion-skin blueprints are coated with figures,
plumbing fixtures and plumb lines,
anatomical sketches of sheet rock and hardwood,
high ceilings and spiral staircases,
all drawn up by a man with thick spectacles
and a handlebar mustache,
based on what you told him came to you in your sleep.
He has confabulated a crenellated tower
with arched embrasures on the edge;
a long dining hall with six chandeliers,
each named after one of your siblings;
a pantry the size of your fingernail,
large enough for cans of thick vegetable soup
and nothing more. His drawing is like a dream dictionary
or an anatomical picture of your cortex,
lightly penciled for easy changes.
The ink smudge along the side of his hand
is like a Rorschach blot, whatever you want
it to be.