In my dreams I meet a writer
of curly strands of auburn:
she strokes my hand. We play
with words in the sand,
tossing ideas up and down,
about the town.
We hold hands
and embrace each others’ pose,
in prose.
As I pass, she dots my eyes.
I do not want these soft goodbyes.
Bits and Behavior
Musings about software and the world's attempt to understand it
