A Small but Avid Readership

I dream of you. I dream of this.
I wake up reassuring myself

That in waking life you won’t
Exist, and I won’t have to explain

This—That I want you to exist,
That I pretend every day you do,

But never want to encounter
You, my small but avid reader,

Until I’ve finished composing
Myself, every last poem I can do.

You can read me. Believe me,
I want you to. After I’m through.