Awakened in haste,
I threw my cotton sheets
into random creases, capturing
my startled dreams.

Later, in the dark cool
stillness I unfolded
that dream soaked sheet.

Each previous tale
of slumber flew
through me, piercing
my silent core.

Naturally, my daily events
and nightly visions unite,
Astaire and Rogers
twirling in the twilight.

So then, dear conscience
where is day
and when is night?

Cheryl Lynn Moyer Peele

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/dream-pockets/