We Want to Believe That Ours Were Private Dreams

We hide our eyes at breakfast. We hunker at the table.
We avoid contact, focus on the trees
and pray that we, the dreamers, are awake.
The sun seems real, but not more than last night’s.

The Last Night Sun rose privately and red
in what we want to believe were private dreams,
although thirty suns for sixty sleeping eyes
are more unlikely than we want to think.

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