Webbed lines frame perma-etched bluish-black bags
under her baby blues,
Every waking hour a nod,
neck snaps -
Rage at the moonlight
that seeps through the delicate lace.
She draws the curtains.
She sleeps on her side, back straight, knees drawn -
eyes blink open, shut, in rhythm to the
tock, tock
of the grandfather clock standing sentinel
outside her bedroom door.
Shadows play tag across the ceiling, ghosts on high
draw imaginary boundaries in waking dreams.
She lays her head gently on the pillow, sinking further
into its luxurious down,
praying for sheep to jump before her.
