Molly Sleeps

Molly sleeps with one foot on the pillow. She dreams. She dreams. One whole thigh on the pillow. Near the face. The melon places are full and rounded. She lets free a depth-giggle from her lips. Molly lets free of the night. She sits at nine and twelve with one leg that side and one this. She makes shapes under silk. With the gentle shapes of her breath, just visible.

Molly finds hats.

When she, I, you. She, me, together, we, us, delve under blankets of skin. Delve under dressing table frills. She opens. Toes. Feet. Mouth. Round rotundity. Round smells. Dripping lips. Wake. Drip-tips. Armed grids of broken foot-under. Touches. Morning glories. Within hands and grips of soft melody hands. Molly arch-under and over. We, you, three, one, two, clean, dirty.

Rudy was alive once. Now no more. He wears his tiny velvet suit and hides a lamb.

Tonight, she only thinks of two things.