Where did it go, that dream?

Lost. It has been months since I wrote. In the garden, I newly see unruly shrubs and craters wrecking them which have appeared overnight. Wanton. The marking of aliens. Albert and the others are hiding. Tree branches have been ripped down but by what force?

Then the dream. It was like Caliban’s dream who woke up and howled in rage that he could not live his dream’s thousand sounds and sweetnesses.

Only one thought which sounded like a poem’s start.

Where did it go that dream?
Grasped nearly in the sheds of night …

A poet would want to finish it. Say it. Write it.

I will not.
I am
no
poet

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