If you come at all,
you come to me in a dream.
A deep, violent, summer dream
of memory, humid to the touch.
Yet you exist, elusive as an eel,
and I awake as if thrust from the womb,
spinning and fumbing for familiarity.
At times, I see you in a dream
and I know you are real.
At times, I come unhinged
and real may not be as real
as my eyes, my ears would have me believe.
If I tether my soul to imagination,
will I find you in that dream?
Do you dream of me?
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