Asleep, alive, her shape makes me afraid.
Afraid to lose what lasts a little while—
A curl of light along her shoulder blade,
One elbow up but the round ear in shade,
Mouth serious, eyes inward in denial
Of waking life—her shape makes me afraid.
She is like a statue they’ve displayed,
A maiden’s (from the porch), with her unseeing smile.
Light is sketched along her shoulder blade
And weaves around her head like waves of braid,
Suggesting hair in an archaic style,
Asleep-alive. Her shape makes me afraid,
Every year the marble more decayed,
The lines less clear. Time starts its slide,
Curling the light along her shoulder blade
Then rubbing out the features we have made
To take the wing and numbers from the dial.
Alive in sleep her shape turns, unafraid,
Drawing the night along her shoulder blade.