And you do.  And they're always
so weird, yet, in their attachment
to you, so linear, like pin-striped suits.

"What do you think that means?"
you ask, after describing the streams
of your consciousness. A cheap aura of

sagacity surrounds me in its blue flame
as I improvise toward the logical
and refer you to the real-life antecedents

of your psychic sweat. "Of course," you say, 
"that's it!" When, in gratitude, you rest 
again, I look up to the ceiling where

hologram portraits of Freud and Jung
commingle with the stucco. But me?
I don't tell you my dreams. Instead, in the early

hours of morning -- not awake, but not asleep --
I mumble or mutter frightfully; sometimes 
even sit up and scream. You awake and put

your hand on my shoulder. "What's wrong?" 
"I just got run over by a truck, again," I say. 
"Were you dreaming?" No, they aren't dreams,

I explain. They're "waking visions." That's what 
I call them, anyway. Premonitions. Daymares. 
"It probably doesn't mean anything," you say,

as you roll over and return to your dreams.