It came to me in a dream: a poem about poetry is not poetry the words we use are never ours it cannot rhyme, 'cause times have changed the flow is out of joint, as is our world no periods, no accents, except the one we speak with we write in tongues we were not born with it came to me in a dream I no longer remember only the voice of a friend asking where I was and we write like kittens licking a blank page on a typewriter our language sandpaper