The president is walking in his sleep.
At the ends of his arms
air-flicking fingers thrum
dreaming of turning on a light.
Sleep, surrounded by switches
is iridescent in the Dark House.
His sleepy hand fumbles and reaches,
cheerful. Numb. Near.

The dilly silly court
on diases of raw silk
smirked at the dwarf
toddling. Oh, the milk
spilling down his chin!
Even the Imam laughed
as the eyes rolled
in the lolling head.