Jane Awake

The opals hiding your lids as you sleep, as you ride ponies mysteriously, spring to bloom like the blue flowers of autumn each nine o'clock. And curls tumble languorously towards the yawning rubber band, tan, your hand pressing all that riotous black sleep into the quiet form of daylight and its sunny disregard for the luminous volutions, oh! and the budding waltzes we swoop through in nights. Before dawn you roar with your eyes shut, unsmiling, your volcanic flesh hides everything from the watchman, and the tendrils of dreams strangle policemen running by too slowly to escape you, the racing vertiginous waves of your murmuring need. But he is day's guardian saint that policeman, and leaning from your open window you ask him what to dress to wear and to comb your hair modestly, for that is now your mode. Only by chance tripping on stairs do you repeat the dance, and then, in the perfect variety of subdued, impeccably disguised, white black pink blue saffron and golden ambiance, do we find the nightly savage, in a trance.