Your eyes pore above me, inkwells from
which your curls spill forth, dripping down
on unwritten I, down, down comes
a splash on my collar, splattering spiders.
A feather traces my faultlines, miniature quakes the only
sign, the meteorologist who breaks more than he heals,
for once.
Your eyelids burn, a candle burn, revealing handiwork too numerous to read.