Moments before sleep sweeps me from my thought,
a tired tango dancer dipped to floor,
the beckoning of love—a moment fraught,
with scattered lines I have no poems for.

Then restless writing fingers feel they ought,
slip quickly back through sleep’s soft-shutting door.
If dream’s subconscious spin should come to nought,
my words themselves may one day come to more.

© Karin Cox 2007