In the dullness of my night cap

are ten white stars.

They reach for me inside, a clay of thought,

a hard consciousness -

to soothe, to stroke,

a warm ellipse over my forehead,

a heavy mushroom descending to press.

 

They seep into my palm’s dive,

pouring my shoulder, a cleft of mercury –

eye to lid, transparent –

my ceiling, cloak spent and cotton

dripping pail,

my cheek, dripping ever more so

 

a pale presence. Should I leave my body

for these ten white ghosts to charm?

My sob nailed into the night,

my wrists dangling in the bed of harm,

my tongue, bitten, in a wail

that carves my fevered sheets,

and tangles around my ankles like serpents?

 

A folding black – the completion takes,

my ten white souls to death,

whispering in my ear –

“You will not hurt anymore, my dear.”

 

Closer each night, I route the tear -

a glass yawn of obscurity,

broken -

devouring sombre, jilted tender

and crane my neck to fray.