I like the posture but not the yoga. I like the inebriated morning but not the opium. I like the flower but not the garden the moment but not the dream. Quiet my love. Be still. I am sleeping.

Harlem What happens to a dream deferred? Does it dry up a raisin in the sun? Or fester a sore And then run? Does it stink rotten meat? Or crust and sugar over a syrupy sweet? Maybe it just sags a heavy load. Or does it explode?

What if you slept And what if In your sleep You dreamed And what if In your dream You went to heaven And there plucked a strange and beautiful flower And what if When you awoke You had that flower in you hand Ah, what then?

I bring you with reverent hands The books of my numberless dreams.

I love the silent hour of night, For blissful dreams may then arise, Revealing to my charmed sight What may not bless my waking eyes.