While Sleeping

I am sleeping in the next room,
dreaming:
          Enters a woman holding my brain.
          She does not look like a surgeon
          but has the stern, delicate face
          of the one behind her -
          the one carrying my heart.
The man in the next room is tired,
has spent an entire day:
          tilting at windmills,
          searching for Dulcinea,
          recording his emotions as a memorial
          against the forgetfulness of old age;
fearing the day when reading
must substitute for remembering.