POEMS

I went to sleep late, with two poems reciting themselves

Inside my head. All through the night, whenever I woke up,

I'd hear them, changing words, adding or dropping lines,

Trying to prevent the semicolons from sneaking off.

Once, both poems were trying to audition new endings

And my dream, unable to make itself heard, became a pantomime;

(I have no idea why three owls did a sort of ballet nor why

Franz Kafka insisted on standing drinks for everyone.)

This morning, only one poem remained and it

Glared at me truculently when I wrote it down.