Tide Watcher

As she tosses and turns
in the desert of night,
her tears kindle an oasis of fire
where scorpions haunt
the perimeters of dreams
and birth nightmares
from their glowing eyes.

Too hot to sleep,
she's laid among weeds
to choke or breathe as she will,
watches heaven light
to flesh tones
over tufts of cloud,
then deepen to amber and rose,
tangerine and violet.

The sea, tied against time,
washes in and away.
Beneath her lids the hourglass
of clocks and tides spins -
a bowl of flames and scorpion nests -
hidden by shade.

In her room full of mirrors
there is no rest.