Before Mourning

    The sky is naked, waiting
    for the blinds to cover its blushes.
    You hear him rustling words
    up a hustle of tongue:
    time for shuteye. The stairs
    are carpeted with your footsteps.

    You rummage the upright's keys
    in a spasm of play. The day
    peels the layers of light
    from its body; he throws
    the words round your shoulders
    like a last slosh of paint.

    Lower your lids. You'll need
    matchsticks to prop them open.
    Sleepy. Baby. You watch them
    smooth him out like a suit,
    prepare him. The clock chimes
    idly behind you: time for shuteye.

From the book Looks Familiar