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Dream

After the rumble of the flush died down
At one a.m., I washed my hands
And creaked past where the landing lands
And slept again, unfound.

Outside in the street where the skyline merged
With night, above the windswept road,
Birds mourned — but how was I to know?
I dreamed my own sad dirge.

I envy those others who dream of flying
Happy alone; whose nightly figments
Aren't awash with tearful pigments;
Who don't wake up crying.

Sometimes you're there, and I'm far behind you,
Clinging to threads of hope, but piteous.
Sometimes you're far away, oblivious.
Always, I can't find you.

Outside in the street where the skyline merged
With dawn, above the leaves and dew,
Birds called — and I called out to you
Asleep. And no-one heard.