a tendency to have more vivid dreams when in isolation.
The facsimile of dreams fades in morning light
like a picture seen through tracing paper,
A staccato of episodes replay
while the grey blanket of day’s dullness
waits predictably in the wings.
How can I recall that touch again?
Enfold myself in a kind coracle of arms,
Feel the blessing of skin on skin,
hands entwined in answered prayer?
Let me taste the sweetness of a smile,
Breathe once more sun-warmed flesh,
Know another person’s presence,
Hear a voice that’s not my own.
Can we ever visit the departed
with anything more than memory?
Why continue to summon unreliable ghosts
to séances of regret?