Her flushed cheekbones,
Flame-capped peaks razing
Gates of horn and ivory.
She turns her head,
Her body still motionless,
Her eyelids fluttering in spasms,
The rise and fall of her oblong chest
Crosshatched with white noise.
The blanket purrs a sibilant melody,
Her hand rests upon its pharynx.
Sleeves half drawn up and her wrist
Studded with dried sweat.
She sleeps as the air conditioner groans, as
The police siren wails, as
Her stuffed giraffe tumbles
To the ground.
Lights dimmed, we know not
Of what she dreams.