A bad dream pastes
a collage of magazine images
on the moon, backlit
designer names
from a stellar platform,
but dims all the romance
around the world.

A woman tries to wake
from the mind’s
imaginative subconscious,
clean the sable brush of light
painting the inside canvas
of her rapidly moving eyes.

There is nothing wet
about this rain
of designer labels,
the monochrome multitude
of Ford model faces,
the craters that cup
bare breasts.

A woman holds
her breath in sleep,
tosses off the covers,
crosses legs,
beats her pillow,
then smothers it
against her belly.