“You know when something is good.

Your gut tells you.

You can taste it.”

Too tired to continue,

He writes the rest of his poem in his sleep

On the back of his eyelids

In the language of dreams.

“I know this is good.

I feel it in my gut.”

He dies in his sleep.

He lives.

His eyes weep in joy and in loss,

For the dreams have come and gone,

Mighty and magnificent

And forgotten

Things.