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.