Dreamt I went
to a workshop and met
my reflection.
He said, in order to be a poet,
you must ask
the right questions.
What is nostalgia?
I cautiously invited.
All the memories, he replied,
with none
of the hindsight.
I solicited next.
Some hoodoo hex;
an atomic pile, throwing off
art like radiation.
what is this purgatory
where we reside?
Simply a purging
through repetition, he sighed.
What then, is heaven?
I stammered, losing patience.
That which lies
all the time
outside your vision.
