She sleeps on the carpet,
legs and arms folded in the small
and monotonous song of the 20-inch fan,
the polite lace tablecloth behind her tipping softly
in the breeze. A live sculpture, she pauses
in existence, leaving the summer afternoon
just long enough to wander on a space
of sweet water, unencumbered
by the wakened world.
The string on the blinds swings tentatively,
the plant’s arm vibrates and the gray scrap
of fishnet moves ever so slightly against the mirror.
She alone is a still, deep weight,
her only movement the life fuelled by her
own silent heartbeat, steady, tying her to Thursday’s reality
even as she wades across impossible blue streams.