(Ever have a dream where you write the perfect poem, all typed out, and then wake up and all you grasp is the last line? I edited an older poem, changed the title. for the Cosmos Edition of Poeming Pigeon. Does this poem make sense?)
Oh Where, Poem
What subconscious unlocks
cosmos of the mind,
thumbnail of the heavens,
constellation of muses?
Inside this miniature sky,
lies space to dream-write words.
In vivid galaxy of sleep
a perfect poem flows,
Come twilight morning of half-sleep,
if lucky, such words descend
like fresh snowing on neuron-branched trees
rooted in the mind, clinging for beauty sake.
Perhaps it is Calliope, protector of poetry,
who holds the tip of something slightly out of grasp
because to wake, breaks the spell,
remembering is lost
except for the divine last line.
Oh reach, oh grasp the tail of that comet,
hang on, to dream it again and again.