there is a sleep
that comes
as nighttime weaves
around you
patterns moving
speckled light
against the black
shadow substance
tears away
before your hands
if you reach
to touch it
wraps
inside the dream
a still-shaped form
of you
patterns move
the play unfolds
contorted situations
show as real
but it’s only nighttime
weaving
the speckle dark
insubstantial
as the dust
of what you dreamt
before
© Frank Prem, 2017
April 2017 Poem #24: turn my coffee
