Resurrections: Yet Another Unpublished Poem
A surrealistic prose poem written (in italics, for some reason) sometime in the 1990s.
The Lateness of the Hour
He found himself awake in the middle of the night and her staring at him. "You're awake," he said. She nodded. Time passed. He touched the sheet covering his chest and felt its texture with his fingers. Not wanting to, he asked: "Is this real?" She said, "It's a dream." He looked up at the webbed light glowing in the ceiling. "So when I wake up," he asked, "you cease to exist?" "Unless," she said, "I'm the one who's dreaming." He considered, then said: "Either way, neither of us will survive. Not if we're dream selves. Not if we're not real." She looked up at the ceiling with him. "What time is it?" she asked. He glanced the the clock on the table. It had no hands. "Late," he said. They stopped talking.
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The Lateness of the Hour
He found himself awake in the middle of the night and her staring at him. "You're awake," he said. She nodded. Time passed. He touched the sheet covering his chest and felt its texture with his fingers. Not wanting to, he asked: "Is this real?" She said, "It's a dream." He looked up at the webbed light glowing in the ceiling. "So when I wake up," he asked, "you cease to exist?" "Unless," she said, "I'm the one who's dreaming." He considered, then said: "Either way, neither of us will survive. Not if we're dream selves. Not if we're not real." She looked up at the ceiling with him. "What time is it?" she asked. He glanced the the clock on the table. It had no hands. "Late," he said. They stopped talking.
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