You will crinkle on the windowsill,
Like thunder, knocking in the night.
My wrists will snap the curtains open.
Drawn from slumber, to the moonlight.
There will be no conversation,
Ten tongues swollen, four ears deaf.
Your lips will dress me in the morning
You will weave the day from freckles
spotting the banks of your left iris
I will walk along its beaches bottled,
Biting nails to a thick mist.
'When I die, I want your hands on my eyes,'
Two cliffs, cupped,
ten fingers, blinds.