Was the dream that I was sleeping?
If so, that was a beautiful dream.
If so, that was restful sleep.
A parody of virtuosity,
a great mockery of poetry
and its feelings that sing and creep.
Maybe I can do that again
and climb, dream to dream, to heaven.
You were nowhere near (only daylight creeping)
but a fond feeling, halfway between amazement and swoon
tugged on the sleeve of my soul
as if nowhere to see or go was calling,
an urgency that calm was necessary,
a rest I experienced with you,
never really noting then what it was,
thinking it was from beauty and love
until the morning of this puzzling slumber
when I now think it even more profound,
not just triangular and momentary like fire,
but warm and eternal and round.