Night marches on, towards uncertain conclusions—
towards waking. I fear I'll die
a little girl in a black dress,
dressed to dance, but already in mourning,
as the black night in its spangled couvre-livre
dies, taking light into itself.

In my dream, a wire--hot, thin,
the color of a peridot--
lacerates the baby in my stomach
who is not yet a baby,
only a month’s worth of days,
a hub of cells.
The pain ends abruptly,
cauterized by the sun, by the dissolution of dreams
into radiant cells.