Some summers the house lay empty.

There being no such thing

as high season

in those days.

No blue slippers, no dog.

No plants, no half-read book on the table.

No hourglass, no crown

and no angel at the door.

Is it still a dream if what you dream is actually happening?

Is Ursula really asleep?

The too tightly tucked sheets,

her right hand props the chin - unwieldy angle.

A sharp bulge in the bed.

So, maybe dream as alibi here.

Plausibly deniable. The absent husband

will hear a version of this.

Filled with all necessary ellipses.