I dreamt in poetry last night.

Before I went to sleep, I carefully selected e.e.cummings and Anne Sexton to cover the contents of my evening. Without noticing it, the clock they were swinging rhythmically before my eyes read 2:00 a.m. and I was still staring at it, hypnotized by curiosity of what shapes their lips made when they wrote, how frequently they looked up from the page to stare blankly into full space. I believed everything they said, was lost and found in a tock.

But it didn’t stop when I closed my eyes to their tangible words.

I fell softly into a possibly favorite part of life: that dangling into a fresh bite of sleep moment. And the poetry continued. I could see images that were words and hear the sights before my eyes breathe and move. Vision/noise/meaning was one thing.

I knew I was dreaming, knew that I had never encountered poetry so full, had the pressing need to wake myself up and scribble everything across pages in the still dark night.

But I woke up only the next morning having retained just a memory of the word “festering” and a vision of that word unfolding. It had something to do with greens outlined by browns and levitating ovals and the slightest sense of growth.