THE PROBLEM WITH WRITING IN ONES SLEEP

When no one is there to listen
The old tale stirs and begins
To tell itself. Small things change;
Surely the hero used to avoid
Such preposterous hats?
And had he always loved
The second girl? No matter;
He has always loved her now.
Prison, though, has not improved her
And her tendency to hover
Two inches above the floor
Is, on the whole, unnerving.