by christopher sakwa
Thursday, December 29, 2011
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Coffee is the title of a poem that I wrote in my dream two years ago. I cannot remember the body of the poem, just the title. There was a second poem written in my dream that same night but I cannot remember anything about it.
Weaving you in my sleep one early
morning, a knock on my door
sent the sewing needle on the floor.
I woke from my slumber,
leaving you somewhere before completion.
I searched for you afterwards, beneath the dark bulk of my eyelids.
Gone. Vanished in my ephemereal memory.
You were swallowed by the swarthy silence of that emptiness.
Secretly I mourn your loss, secretly, in my ebony tears every night,
Dreams unworthy of my memory stick; but you
my little poem.