THIS POEM I DREAMED

I slept on the thinnest lip of
             sleep.
Ten shallow, shattered dreams I
              keep
Stacked in a dusty, darkened
              heap,
From which no rhyme or reason
              seep.
With eyes grown black from the night's slow
              creep,
Stony tears I start to
              weep,
As from each jagged dream I
              leap,
Into the morning's icy
              deep.

On the anniversary of
my grandmother's death
April 2, 1990

 

All written material © Bill Schechter, 2016
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