Here's a poem I wrote in my sleep.
I dreamed it.
And I was with my mother in a big walled garden,
like a cool park where I was once, where Yeats and Lady
Gregory used to stroll.
The butterflies-- I woke--
I just dreamed it and wrote it down.
The butterflies are yellow, yellow, yellow.
Red is the throat of the bird.
What is behind the wall, wall?
What is behind the garden wall?
Then I woke up.