IMOGENE’S NOTEBOOK
But Dearest Friend
A poem
An arm I lay over my eyes
Sleep is but a charm under my pillow
Are you summoning me into your dreams?
I beg of you, send me away
I feel you on me like a birthmark —
mourn you like a fifth limb
I hunt for light from dusk to dawn,
not even your shadow drifts by
My head I bury under the pillow
Sleep does not fancy a companion;
it waits for heads to drain all thought
Sleep does not knock on burning eyes;
it dreads the logs of Orphic wishes,
it flies its chariot to those with simple dreams
My dreams are filled with warm hands,
white jasmine and soulful smiles — gone too soon,
vanilla cookies and mango juice at sunset,
conversations that bind hearts at midnight,
good mornings and good nights, and happy birthdays
You came into my life as poetry, dearest friend
You came into this world with song and flute,
and left it hollow —
a yellow reed, cracked and tuneless
