in the still of the

Dancing so civilized with no recourse to fail,

she bawls with blanket clutched in woolen sweat

where, under a darkened porch, the play reveals

a paisley counterpane of ghostly pale barely lit,

her crystal d'arc of thirst a shadowed octagon.

The opaque prism is fast gulped clear of passion

and the night's caffeine pulse that greeds upon

a mattress flopped is the restless turning ration.

Vertical blinds quickly turned too dusty creaked

for the woolen blanket's dreaming seams to settle

against a random chance as rising dawn is peeked

with orange streaks dimly bounced on colored metal,

these slats that fail to seal a frontal vision leaked,

his leering spiked by turns of sharp edged nettle.