These thoughts of mine are
hard to keep, these flitting
things of light and shadow,
of dreams forgotten, and
of the ecstatic delirium of
madness that comes from
a night of sleepless turnings,
stimulants, enticing so,
the bodies of dreams, mine
and not. But who can tell,
among us all, among
us heaped and sprawled
and thronged, who can say
who truly dreamt, the
word that marks, the laugh
that cuts, that worms into
the hollowed space, that
takes the place ones heart
did make, first, before we
dreamt at all?