Sunday, November 13, 2016


for Betsy

                    My dreams fly off in tatters once I wake—
                    What had been so engaging moments past
                    As soon as my eyes flutter will forsake
                    My memory: that vividness won’t last.

                    Though others can recall in great detail
                    Adventures they’ve pursued throughout the night,
                    My hopeful efforts are of no avail
                    And what was splendid fades in morning’s light.

                    The best that I can do is sit right here
                     In readiness to write and hope somehow
                     That what I dreamed about may reappear
                     To manifest in poetry right now.

                          That isn’t quite what happened, as it seems,
                          And so I write on not remembering dreams.