If, while you sleep,  

my feelings yearn for poetry
and I get up–
turn on the light
in another room
and chase words of love
as warm as a walk in June
when an orange sky
above Coal Bank Mountain
betrays sunrise–
and I imagine a dove’s
haunting song,
as the smell of honeysuckle
drifts toward me.

When there is no space
left between me and poetry,
I write.