Dreams are the imagery of what we long for,

neural playground for the literary soul, to wander,

with flashes of memory, their fabric ripped and

slurried, run with others, to rise dripping with thought

and vividly there. Ripped and wrenched, stirred

in the vat of short-term memory, dislodged from

common sense. Shaken, melded, fibers rearranged

to both nonsensical and realistic themes.

You and I astride some great behemoth,

talking of pashas and rainfall,

the taste of what we wanted, the feel of hands on,

of legs, of us becoming in the brief neural flicker

twin stars which never fade in that brief immortality.