Trollop snores on a blanket
on the floor of the sag-roofed shed,
champagne behind her ears,
whatnot between bitten lips.
Lechery lies placid
in the pillow’s scoop,
daydreams roused in an
almost perfect sleepwalk.
Mozarabic trills from a bluebird
charm the slatted light
and drops crowd into single file
along the rotten eave.
A feast of berries
in a bear’s den,
the comforts of an adult’s
house of cards or else
a lacework shrine of
flowers and fish bones,
a choice of delicacy
piled beside delicacy.