Everything I’ve ever imagined
Is in this room
And I don’t believe Sherene is ever coming back
And I do believe Amy is asleep
And I don’t know what Geef is doing
As I talk on the telephone with Becky about stuff. Becky

Talks about Travis and Clare and R.T. and writing and life and stuff. Becky
And I talk about things I never imagined
And things I never figured I’d be doing
Everything is in this room
Even Corinna who’s in Moscow, asleep
And I wonder if I’ll ever make it back

To Europe, back to Greece back to England, back
To Wales. I wonder when Becky
Will stop by to go over her poems. When the world is asleep
Everything you ever imagined
Distilled in the crucible of this room
Where what you are dreaming is what you are doing

And when you are doing
This and how you are doing this is part of an incessant
Pattern of energy concentrated in the silence of the room
Yesterday Becky
Came by with the children and I imagined
Them 20 years from now. I’m asleep

Again now. I’ve been alseep
For years. I’ve been doing
Stuff, but what I imagined
Was different. You can’t go back
To Paros, Swansea, Harlech, London, Clydach, Waunarlwydd, really. Becky
Is a genius. This room

Is this room. This poem is this poem. This room
Holds its shape, as Amy holds her shape, asleep,
And Geef and Sherene and Laura and Steve and Travis and Clare and Becky
And R.T. and Pete and Tina and Corinna, whatever they’re doing
Has gotta be perfect. Back
Up a minute. Where’s Mo? Mo’s dead. I never imagined

This room this way before. What I’m doing
Is what I am, asleep or awake. Out back
There’s Becky’s old VW fender. Everything is imagined