Sunday, September 19, 2010

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

My eyes

half moons

might beg.


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.


The dread

of confronting



'When I die, I want your hands on my eyes,'

Two cliffs, cupped,

ten fingers, blinds. 

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