she slept almost forever

on a mattress

not of butterfly wings

but what rubs off on the finger;

dreams consisted

of nightmare

and wondering whose hand

had made the mattress,

but it did not occur

to sleeping beauty

even once

to wake up.

nightmare itself

tossed her out of her soft bed

of black and green and gray,

and for a time

mottled and bruised

and wearing those colors

she lay on the floor like something

dying;

then it flew by,

that first winged thing,

angel, bird, or butterfly

she could not tell,

but she is awake now and

listening.

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