Inoculated against tears as if
breathing were a consummate agony
and using my features with your free
hand I might believe you blind.
Delicate throne of bones, your
sleeping face ascends through shadows
into the nude moonlight
gravity unbends you to.
You sink with a stolen voice and
turn from the light, hair trailing
like a stain upon the pillow.
With half-closed eyes,
expressionless, quiet as snowfall.
Lips parting with passion’s scald,
whitest flesh that is a noise itself.