A good night's sleep, but awoke with backache
Good dreams, though I've forgotten what they were
Sometimes forgotten dreams can reawake
In conversation, or when the idea
Is resurrected by something we hear
A Proustian memory-jogger, memory
Not of real life, but of the life in here
Internal, surreal, fantastical, the
Agglomeration of reality
And personal perception, our own take
Filtered through our own love and our own fear
Strange brew, strange view, even to we who see
This nightly movie through closed eyes, and make
It simultaneously while lying there
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