In the morning I sit like a child
emptying pockets of treasures collected on the way,
little snatches of dream:

A turkey farm and a crotchety neighbor.
A house full of beds all made up in big flowered sheets.
A cave at the end of the beach.

I brush the lint from each, 
see how the sun shines through it, 
set it out on the table.

Something is missing.

There was a dream, I know there was,
only it left nothing for me to hold it with,
no image, word, or motion.

Still I remember, clear and certain,
in the way everything inside
ripples open. 

I dreamed somebody loved me.