The after-taste of a dream

My dreams are poems

Righting themselves upside down

in Not-for-long Ville.


Still fresh with relief

when I wake I take a pen

so I may keep them.


But the poems fade

faster than the dream even

when I whisper, “Don’t.”


What’s left then, but last

night’s dream, which will never be

anything more than




4 thoughts on “The after-taste of a dream

    • Thank you. (I think you were in my dream last night. As Silver Leaf. But I can’t remember the details. Maybe it will come out as a poem.)


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