One poem, two forms. The first is a sonnet, the second is free verse in triplets (and one couplet).
I'd Forgotten What I Said About Her Hair
I had a dream wherein I met a girl.
Her world died, inside out, while I watched.
I saw the last light fade, then unfurl
and fold back in on itself, worn and notched.
Awoken, dreaming done for now, I wait:
Remember this, she says, and points her fair
hand at a lock, a ray of light, one plait.
I'd said something then, about her hair.
Forgotten words; they follow, clear and bare.
I'm focused on doors now, always when shut.
They draw me in. I see their outlines flare,
and I'm concerned: I feel this in my gut.
The words I need are here: I can't recall.
She's waiting, singing, ready above all.
I had a dream
that I met a girl
in a dying world.
She asked me to remember
The last light of that place struck it just so:
it scattered, bronze and gold, metal and fire,
a liquid that held me as it burned me.
I'd said something then,
something important, something
rarefied and diffuse.
Awake, dreaming done for now:
I remember the feeling but
not the look.
We've become overly concerned with doors:
they give us pause,
a glimmer lying
in wait for us, quietly subsiding.
We reach for the words: they come easy
just before awakening
but now, and always, they hover at
the edge of consciousness: I'd forgotten what I said about her hair.
That's all for now.