“Upon Waking to Find a Sparrow Loose in My Room”
I dreamed again the ghost of you.
I dreamed again the folds and the heat
of you sudden in my sleep, I dreamed you wet
against the salt of my want. This is a thing a dream,
a muse, becomes: a flutter whispering about
the dust of the drape, a shadow tangling
must webs in high, hard corners,
the flit, the rasp, of wings tattering
against the pane, against the false, baring light.
I pen you to the sheets, your song
against the dark of my palm; this
is a thing a dream, a poem becomes.
by J. Brian Long
from Autumn Sky Poetry, Number 1, June 2006
photo by Christine Klocek-Lim