Late Dreams (Emilea Wright)

Late Dreams


“Are you real?” A valid question

In a world of plastic manufactured

In lands far away. Even the buzzing

Light bulbs were a little too round.


The man with the orange scarf leaned

Kissed her smooth cheek, like

Magnets pushing past resistance and

Touching quietly.


The hurried movements that blurred

Into blackness didn’t strike me as important

As the first part. At times, I want to ask

The trees if they’re real. Sometimes the world

Seems a little too round.


But then soft wind pushes past my fences

And combs the hair out of my eyes. Of course

It’s real. The lake massaging the shore,

The steam curling out of the cup, staring

Across the table at a bright face


It’s all real.
Even if I want some to be fantasy

And smudge it away.





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