Thinking some poems will come from dreams,
the journal is always beside the pillow,
but what comes are words: fingers groping,
a locked door, woman in the shower –
Dreams are the notebooks for poems unwritten.
Having settled myself into the warm corner
of afternoon sunlight resting on the couch,
a dream loped rabbit-like into my head.
I ran four-legged across the summer meadow,
and woke sweaty, winded, sniffing and hungry.