Now is the time of alarm clocks and morning traffic.

When you open your eyes in your new reality,
you’ll be disoriented, possibly alone.

Sunlight through the curtains might be too bright.
The room itself, not what you imagined.

It’s okay if you don’t want to be there,
if you want nothing more than to return to the dream.
Too pull the covers up and go back to sleep.

If only it were that easy. If only one could linger forever.

Many of the greats tried to extend their stay, believing
that if they worked hard enough, if they were lucky enough,
they could create something that could last.
A lyric, a film, a collage of feathers and magazine clippings. 

To make something that—when the currents began
to pull them away—could, like an anchor, hold. 
A novel, a song, a sculpture made of nails. 

Marie Howe once said that an elegy
is not made from grief. It’s made from love. 

Those of us who remain knew you’d go before us.

In the dream, everything seemed possible—
but I can’t imagine the dream with you no longer in it.

It’s hard for me to give advice. I’ve never woken
in the room you’ll find yourself in.

But I’m told that the ground there is solid.
I’m told there’s still laughter.

And once you get up and leave that room,
there’s a door that opens to an entire world.