we never walked by the river.
we never ate at some little diner.

never watched the sun come up together.
never made poetry on the back of a turtle.

never made songs out of rhyming fish.
never rested at some little motel,

else I'd hear you say 'i'm hungry, ready for breakfast?'
and I'd say 'yeah, let's go'.

sprawled across the bed with old books.
a river of words rushing my fancy.

it's not a dream, it's drops of chatter
distilled by windowless silence, I need water -

I'll just float here awhile
and rearrange the strange clouds.

- Linda Sue Grimes