But Never Found the Book

Ideal continuity—
Let it die and then come back.
Sleep has its words, but not so

Many as in waking life
And never so organized—
At best, dancing around sense

Like a poem, like a surreal,
Surreally realistic
Construction of wonder tales

Collaged from mnemonics, like
Verses by Kathleen Ossip.
Sometimes, you wake up with us

Left on the pillow, under
Your tongue, trying to finish
What we’d begun, whatever

Sleep wrung from memories, but
The same ones die and come back
And die and come back, never

Reaching the end of the poem,
Much less completing the book.
Oh, look! More words! Continue.