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.