Dreams and dreams come back to me br when I awaken with their threads br like cobwebs feathering past my face br the visions of lost cities, fade quickly, br but an after-image of emotions flutters br behind eyelids. When I close my eyes br I can barely make out faces and places. br br Dreams and dreams come back to me br when the aftertaste of some exotic fruit br reminds me of another nibbled br in paradise and left half-eaten; br when some bittersweet bite of strange curry br brings back a tantalizing taste of a dreamed cuisine br that brought tears to my eyes with its spiciness, br or when some whipped delicacy br whispers to my taste buds, “You've been here before, ” br and the flavor of ambrosia from the Tír na nÓg br of childhood rushes back from its lost corner. br These were never in reality br but the real can call them into being, br as if the dream were a seed of the future br that now I stumble upon, newly discovered. br br Dreams and dreams come back to me br as legs bounding over some building or puddle, br jack-knife in a spasm that kicks the covers off br landing me back in my room, in my own slumbering bed br and I shiver from the fright of what horror I escaped; br yet already the nightmare is washed away br leaving only a cramp in my left calf. br br Dreams and dreams come back to me br yet too many dreams are forgotten, br As the echoes of the last one ring in my ears, br the voices that jerked me back to reality br or awoke me with a gasp br now shake the silence with their presence. br I don't know which is worse: br the remembering or the forgetting.