I.
It was this Jabawockeez dance back in ’09
where all the members had red
tracksuits, and white masks.

They, popping and locking their way through
to the hiphop world title, a rhythm all their own:
a tight mesh of violins and dropped beats.

II.
Your evenings wake up like their dance routine -
all fuzzy, late edges and hard, sideways locks -
you the trapped light from an old photograph.

Your limbs are a tangle of red tracksuits and gloves,
sterile-white boots, but yellow masks: its sounds full
of their bedtime violins, your heavy beat sunrises.

III.
You take these pills to keep the mornings asleep.