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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.