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.