if i had my way with
delta waves, and there
were a catalogue to
dreaming, i would
run a slippery finger
down the thumb index
to find the letters to
your initials – perhaps
they would be rubbed
off with devotion –
skim down the
pages, pick one before
i get too
involved or over-
whelmed with the
selection, and lie
down to dream.

or perhaps the letters
would be crisp,
untouched, the pages
never exposed to
light, a volume
of deferred
gratification
because resisting
is always more
pleasurable.

on day fifty-three, only
my waking thoughts
go there, caress
the spine of unknown
volumes, controlling
the impulse to ask
for at least one dream
.
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