On Remembering Dreams


I push my hands into the gooey cobwebs
of my dreams.
It is a shadowy, vicious land
of inner thoughts;
players flee before my groping fingertips
and then turn
to taunt me.
Sometimes, they dance out there,
having a party without me.
Sometimes, they just go,
leaving me with sticky, empty fingers.
And yet, at other times,
one of those dancers
will venture too close
and I can snatch it,
pull it out, examine it minutely
and as I look and poke,
other shadowy figures
emerge to join my prisoner
because the party
is out here now,
in the broad daylight,
and it is glorious
in its nakedness.

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