Poem one

1.3.15

Flowers wake me, still drunk,
in the middle of the night.
Dizzy, I smell them in every direction.
Real flowers, not sickly sweet.
On my back, spine, hamstrings,
calves.  Tingling.  It's usually my custom
to tell you about the dream I woke from, a real dream
this time, rich with the kind of detail
I would only ever choose flowers over.
But it's early in the year.  I'm writing
just to write, dreaming to dream.
Later I'll tell you.  Later,
when it means something.