122

Pierrot slept and the light
Came up. The mime remained
By the bed, motionless, dark.
Hunched and elongated, he
Gripped his own vertebrae
At the nape, his bones mapped
In the curtain light and his
Figure as if drawn up into the
Gulf of the white, cold room.
His face was hollow now, and
Unadorned. No show in him.
He ached again for a hit now.
He felt as if his ribcage would
Collapse inward, his arms
Had begun to prickle with heat.
His head was disassociated
From the room, outside of it.
The man before him was white
As a corpse but the fat of his
Abdomen rose from the lower
Edge of his shirt. Fabrice knew
He was fallen in shallow dream.