I had a poem in my head last night, flashing as only those unformed midnight poems can. It was all made up of unexpected burning words. I knew evenin my half-sleep that it was nonsense, meaningless,but that forcing and hammering wouldclear its shape and form. Now not a word of it remains, not even a hint of its direction. What a pity one cannot sleepwrite on the ceiling with one’sfinger or lifted toe.
DentonWelch, Journals,
23 March, Saturday, 2:15 pm
(1946)
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