I had a poem in my head last night, flashing as only those unformed midnight poems can.
It was all made up of unexpected burning words. I knew even
in my half-sleep that it was nonsense, meaningless,
but that forcing and hammering would
clear its shape and form. Now not a word of it remains, not even a hint of its direction.
What a pity one cannot sleepwrite on the ceiling with one’s
finger or lifted toe.
Denton
Welch, Journals,
23 March, Saturday, 2:15 pm
(1946)
