Slept with her
and it was air
and sleep was an ambulance
arriving in the dark
or else, a metaphor so
primly propped
though it was sleep.
I was sleeping
soft against her
twinkling skin
which was a
veil of lace
a perfumed baffle
of her ornate despair
though I cannot tell you
how she was pretty there
bright wall, or fresco, damson
plums and prismed figures