Second of the night

in the red rooted bed her sleeping hand

holds down your yearning shoulder

in counterpoint to her rocksteady breath

her reattached finger taps your skin

softly telegraphing a report from her dreaming

she builds the towering three-storey woman

between the dream home’s floors

in the attic bathroom shine the eyes hair and shoulders

in the main floor kitchen fold the arms breasts and belly

in the cellar squat the hips calves and toes

each floor’s segment held in a big black box

sleep is a timeshare where you lead a real

other life that dreams let you see so

who did you sleep last night moonlighting

as someone else say as the inspector of rows

of rain-damp rat-skin umbrellas blown inside out