In Your Sleep Poem by Terry Collett

In your sleep
Brando was alive again
playing an old wild one
with leather jacket

and slippers,
riding a three wheeled scooter,
and Marilyn Monroe
promised to kiss you

if you could recite
a Dylan Thomas poem
in French or Latin,
and your father came

in the dark robes of death
carrying the grey ashes
of your first burnt poem,
and Ezra Pound made a visit

to your writing room
insisting he’d written
more of those Cantos
from the other side

of the some god's light,
and as you turned over
seeking a comfortable position
in your long sleep,

you thought you lay
face to face
with Greta Garbo,
her eyes peering

into yours,
her lips waiting
to be touched.
In your sleep

someone wiped your brow,
kissed your cheek,
and recited
the Pater Noster

in your ear
and lay your arms
crossed on your breast,
muttering of eternal rest.