Can dreams be real? They exist
at night — in the dark
ineffable phantoms haunting us
like hazy ephemera disappearing
when we watch too long.
No — I think of other dreams,
the ivory hopes spring
for however long we have. We write
them on the clouds until
we dream up something higher.
Are dreams real before
they come true? Does it matter?
I prefer to spend energy
Finding time to nap.
What do we say in the twilight
of a republic? Roman walls fell
into darkness as emperors fiddled
with extravagance, confident
eternity comes to those who wait.
We are a nation doomed
to repeat mistakes of dead
immortals — blinded by hindsight,
history befalls us.
We have our own closet. Maybe that doesn’t impress
you,
but if pressed, I’d be willing to share
a hanger. I should go through these clothes,
make a pile of shirts I never wear anymore
— what an effort. Aren’t closets to hide messes anyway?
Mine declared its ultimatum in carefully arranged polos
demanding closure. I’ve never been one to leave
things hanging.
She bartered over dinner
and
received more than she bargained for
