So to forget about last night’s dream,
a mass forgetting cannot happen too soon,
you wake up and start the search again for pieces
of her on net. And even though you’re sick
of writing about her, here you are.
Time to get less human again, friend.
But it’s as if there were no other themes
in poetry but love, the having of it
and the having lost it. As luck would have it,
you find a senior yearbook photo of her.
You know, you’re growing long in the tooth
to keep doing this, now in your senior years,
her breath on your neck long faded,
the warmth of her cheek long cooled,
the scent of her perfume, Turkish cigarettes,
and suede’s musk mingled away by breezes
long blown out.
Controlling dreams is like herding the wind.
So, you know, you’ll scroll her and write of her until
the computer craze ends, when dreams end, too.

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