Thursday, April 2

Dream Poem

the best ones
write themselves
in my sleep
whispers of words
growing louder
until their voices
shake me,
wake me
into a kind of
conscious stupor,
groping for pen and paper
gasping for air
they come tumbling out
onto the page

how the hand moves
from left to right
leaving words in its wake
is not a small thing

1 comment:

debmoore said...

Brilliant. And so very true.