Eyelids shuttered to the night, something approaches on stilts, listing.
Dreams foam into view behind scarred isinglass.
Like silvery amoeba, membranes spinning,
a black iris watches, waiting for sleep.
Humiliations come taunting from this churning nucleus–
a reckless weave of waving fingers, for shame.
What exposed objects will the lamp project,
the pencil shadow thrown across a blank page?
What noiseless sighs afraid to speak?