A Backward Dream’ by Jim Turner
I am too old for this, nose dripping on books, itching, scratching for words that happily rhyme with love.
I have forgotten the taste of kisses, among the promises of softened eyes, huskily whispered yesses, soft as a dove.
Nowhere then near my lusty mood were mournful birds or distant years, rushing unkindly upon me far too soon, with balding head and slowing blood.
Dear, lost memory, I need to know not your name, but that your golden hair is loose, your laughter light.
So do not be surprised tonight
To find yourself in my dream.