After the Dervish

It occured to me,

one recent frozen morning,

that when I wake

with a song

I have not heard in years

stuck

in my head—

trilling off my tongue

vibrating through my hum—

that it is coming from

somewhere.

Have I been singing it

in my dreams?

Maybe dancing

around

my neuro-constructed living room

or my revenant-filled cocktail-buoyed backyard,

old bones worrying while

singing and dancing

spirits with spirits

working out

long forgotten

concerns?

Maybe twirling

out

dervishing my soul about

the light-aired spaces

that I fill in the dark night

as I lie between

cotton phyllo

waiting for the

morning?

Did I just live a wild dance

that

I can no longer

remember?

A caper lost, a song retained?