Mirage comes to where she is sleeping,
under an old beech tree.
Light bleeds through her not knowing
the dark has gotten there first;
they pass cornerways,
brushing up stares and blossomed threads.
Had waking crept over her eyes to let tiny
slits of blue sky sneak under the lids,
she would see her skin has been sewn with
a pink suit of the early dusk,
brain neurons have caught hold of flirting atoms,
and fingertips have spanned like butterflies’ wings–
sensing naked air from the breaths of earth-coiled roots.
Mineral wisps settle like something had thrust through
the smoky grass,
its shapeless gown braids gold of small bright birds
and yellow leaves
melting down in lush mimosa over her gathered elbows.
She is a quiet cocoon cast inside the standstill of time,
blue veins hunt for scorched mercury–
where the things of dark spruce up the flesh,
and the plumes of light glow through the bone.