Darkness immigrates from the floorboards
into the headboard of the bed, where the skull
crunched against it, dreams flat dreams.

The breathing is even, like a chant.
There is something plangent about the bathroom light,
a cello solo, boring a neat hole

in the head, bonedust flying, the eye like soft cheese,
the hands raised once, then crumpling.
Even pressed together, we sleep alone.

Then there’s nothing except this pain in the wrist
after the hand has flinched from the head,
and the sky has broken into blisters of light,