Then Memory Moves On and Other Dreams Move In

Wake only when the dream gets stuck,
Jammed like an old film projector.
You have to set the one going
Again, to not be forever

In the other. The smell of old
Wood logged and made into this barn
More than a century ago,
The smell of tackle and harness,

This spot where you want to pause
And inhale the last of that world.
It’s all a compound, all injured
As memory tries dredging it

Out of the massively tangled
System of synapses, it is.