Post-Synchronous

A word comes to me,
In dreams at first,
Then, making its way,
To my forethought,
Seems lovely.

I hear it elsewhere then,
All used and worn out,
On tongues in grocery stores,
In waves over the radio,
Converted from script, to speak through spit,
And become so much empty sound.

My word, my own dream,
Already used up.

I'll dream again.