I Show Her Some Photographs

"Why do you
show me these photographs?"
she asks.
"These are
photographs of dreams."
"But they are not
respectable!" she exclaims,
all blushing.
"They come from
another world," I answer.
"You may understand
when you get there."
.
The population
of my dreams
may have no
parents. They
don't return
to tiny palaces
at the end of the day.
Stored away
on a high shelf
in the megawarehouse
of days and nights
of pickled parts and organs.