Captivated last night;

Whisked away into a dream,

was this mind of unusual ease

Upon waking, it was a dream

that could not be dived back into-

Quickly drained, it

was left gaping

It broke the dreamer

as an empty pool breaks

the neck of a blindfolded idiot

Running over to the dresser

Fervently thumbing through the pictures

Searching for one face to be correctly placed-

One in particular-

to be in all the right images

to ensure that the person hadn't run away

out of each treasured frame

encased in plastic, sticking-together

archives

who cling, like the dreamer,

onto ever captured memory

as not to let them

fade away

Checking also, with sweaty- palmed longing,

whether it was more of a crime scene,

brought about, unknowingly, by the viewer

who stole the person out of every picture

to try to glue all the clippings together

to be an almost-up-to-par-with-reality

collage

to hang on the wall.

How funny that we should be discussing

both crime scenes

and framing

But then, they are in different contexts

aren't they?

The ordeal, after all,

was entirely a dream.

Even the mistaken waking from

the brain's night-scene.

So now the night-viewer, actually waking,

sits in the sewer

And looks down to see hands empty of

a collage, a photo-album,

a blindfold

Or even a camera.