And though it’s your hands that are cold you sleep

with slippers on, weighed down the way shadows

change places to show what death will be like

 

before it gets dark—even in bed you limp, the blanket

backing away and you hang on, want to be there

still standing yet you can’t remember if it’s more rain

 

or just that your fingers are wet from falling in love

and every time they pass your lips it’s these slippers

that save you from drowning, let you go on, caress

 

something that is not dressed in white, disguised

as the warm breath thrown over the headboard

smelling from cemeteries without moving your feet.