Please don’t try to tell me
you dreamed about me, 
as if I’m some sort of tired vision 
conjured up by your tired guilt
to do a little late night haunting. 
I don’t wear white. 
And I don’t believe I came to you

in the night, as you slept. 
Sounds like a bunch of baloney to me. 
I ain’t some somnambulant saint 
descended from the hills 
to deliver forgiveness. 
I hold my grudges close to heart

and I’m wide awake and wondering
how well you knew me in broad daylight,
let alone after dark.