I had a dream you wrote poetry to me
And it wasn't in poems, but it was poetry-
And you didn't write for me,
But you did write at me,
In that selfish way,
The way I talk at you.

But it was beautiful and real
And I saw you
For a moment
Not the real you; of course not.
But a creation of an idea of you that wasn't you.
Inside my head.

And you and I and all of Us
Are so alike
And I hope you keep talking at me
Like I do to you
We're all so selfishly human--

Keep talking at me,
And maybe one day
we'll both be
Something more--

But for now, the mundane.
Let it live in your name
And we'll all be the same
Tell me:
What Wild was not once Trapped?