Motivic Dreams
These thoughts of mine
sing serenades,
out of key,
and silently.
Sentences into phrases
is what I want.
I want the wanting.
Your phrases are
beautiful
but unorganized.
Do you even realize?
She says you’re too smart
for your own good.
For a week,
I thought you insane.
Debussy drifts down
minor scales
while we sleep.
You talked in your dreams,
in Schoenberg matrices
and chromatic choruses;
I tried to wake you up
to no avail.
You kept me up all
night, actually.
But, in the morning,
I made you breakfast anyway.
I didn’t even ask of the woman’s
name you spoke of.
I cannot curse your
unconscious. Your dreams
are not mine to judge.
Reality has you in my arms,
...or does it?
Copyright © Penny Montalvan | Year Posted 2009
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