Remember

Whispers
barely audible
indecipherable
inhabit my dreams.
Reflections of
once and when and of...
I can't quite
remember.
What is
almost clear
but not quite,
nearly visible
but still hidden,
soon to be manifest,
but as of yet
not quite in form.
I can't quite remember
these ghosts,
imprints of
tomorrows
not-yet-news,
and the
broken glass from
next week's glass of wine,
spilt on the carpet-
before...
ah, I just can't remember.
And what else I just can't
recall
is the man who appears in my
dreams
once and again,
not quite occasionally,
and the stories he tells me-
the secrets he whispers are-

I never remember in the morning.
Something about
listening to the song of
the abandoned
conch shell.
Maybe then I'll understand.

Some days I wake up
and I can almost
hear his words-
the paradox of
Einstein in a leprechaun suit-
of God dancing the
polka,
of snow that melts the
ground on which it settles-
the boundaries are dissolved.
I don't know, sir!
Tell me more, please!
What is the value of
infinite knowledge if it
evaporates upon
morning's kiss?
Please, I must carry forth
this song of yours.
Why have you woven
your mystical, poetic tome
into the webbing of my
consciousness,
the realm that
sleeps when awake,
awake only as it sleeps?