unstable

my dreams

usually disappear

the moment

i wake up.

the mental

cinema behind

my closed

eyes swings

its curtains

shut.

occasionally

though,

i can salvage

tattered portions,

parts of

a storyline

that didn't

make sense.

they are half

there,

only illuminated

by moonlight.

i stitch them

together,

a quilt of

imagination

and memory.

they are butterflies

in a net.

i temporarily

have them,

but if i

let go they away

will

float