“Dreams” by Kristine Nowak

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All day, there is something I can almost
remember—some whorl of color, some curve

of a face, some nearly empty room—that darts
across the edge of my memory and is gone.

While I brush my hair, my own reflection
in the mirror trips a wire that breaks open

a tangle of images like a film missing
nearly all the frames; or the tone some stranger’s

voice triggers a more distant echo that I
am turning towards but will never reach before

it’s gone. I slept poorly,
and I was surprised to find the morning

coming in through the window. This fugitive
thought seems necessary, but is as strange

as perceptions recollected from another body
with different senses. By evening, it has dissolved

until I can’t recall even a single color,
just the sense that there is more

to the world, fluttering just outside
my reach.

-Kristine Nowak

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