The Somnambulist
Her nightgown is a parched pink hanging aloft
The caverns of her cadaverous frame
With one pendulous braid as dull as dishwater,
And her skin a waxen wormlike pallor.
She greets the night in her larval phase
Circling herself like a spiral staircase
Before she opens and unfolds,
Dislodging her neck from her knees.
Her eyes are two unseeing orbs,
Trembling softly behind their dark drapes.