Roger Singer

It was a night short on

dreams.

Abstract cellophane images

without voices.

Gauzy waves rising and

spilling over.

Busy traffic on a street,

in a city

I might have passed through.

The sun begins to set

and then rises up again;

the gift of an extra day.

Words write themselves onto

paper,

then disappear.

Once awakening,

there were promises worth

forgetting.