Improbable yes but I dreamt of him
As if we were pals
And though we were indoors
Rain fell and it was beautiful
Water coursing down walls.
One of us said
We only get so much—
He said “opera is for the young,”
“String quartets, for dying.”
He was alive alright.
The dream is an antiquated device
Driven by voice and water
Its separate parts so ingeniously assembled
We rise and fall through elements
But he kept writing.