Volume 1 Number 2
Summer 2006


When the Dreams Came Back

Kay Alme

Some stealer of dreams walked my sleep,
closed the circus,
siphoned color, furled flags,
put white silence where
music of voices had been,
until whoever I am when I sleep,
bored, weary of nothing to do,
awoke at three.

Nights passed.
Each night I awoke at three, 
made rosaries of unhappy things
to curse whatever stalks the dark,
strings and strings of hard, black stones
to damn with pain
what keeps dream songs out of sight.

I thought when dreams returned
I’d do handstands on my pillow, skip
from dresser top to dresser top;
but dreams came back in black and white,
good enough to pass the night,
not enough to celebrate.