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.
Roger Singer 