Under her grandmother’s patchwork quilt

a calico bird’s-eye view

of crops and boundaries

naming dimly the districts of her body

sleeps my Annie like a perfect lady

Like ages of weightless snow

on tiny oceans filled with light

her eyelids enclose deeply

a shade tree of birthday candles

one for every morning

until the now of sleeping

The small banner of blood

kept and flown by Brother Wind

long after the pierced bird fell down

is like her red mouth

among the squalls of pillow

Bearers of evil fancy

of dark intention and corrupting fashion

who come to rend the quilt

plough the eye and ground the mouth

will contend with mighty Mother Goose

and Farmer Brown and all good stories

of invincible belief

which surround her sleep

like the golden wheather of a halo

Well-wishers and her true lover

may stay to watch my Annie

sleeping like a perfect lady

under her grandmother’s patchwork quilt

but they must promise to whisper

and to vanish by morning—

all but her one true lover.