I half dreamed yesterday’s poem
in the singsong quiet before midnight,
liquid images playing behind closed eyelids,
snug under a patchwork quilt.
Another time, I would have crawled out of bed,
carried my body through the dark,
held the alphabet in my lap, bleary-eyed,
back bent over slow-moving creativity,
and written the words given.
Another time, not after a day of moving.