She exhausts, blanketed in my bed. Tarnishing.
Wherever I locate the furniture she still dies in the dresser's pocket.
Sometimes I leave the curtains open while she is sleeping.
My familiars watch through the window-frame.
I cannot justify the anger, the concealment.
How can I stand outside? How can I nurture this distance?
I go to her occasionally to reposition limbs.
Hiding plants, verdure, in between the sheets.
I've taken down the mirrors: they encourage prayer.

Fall against the
Mirror
Put out your hands to stop your
 
Self disappearing into your self
 
The light comes in the window
To fall across the
Bed
 
This is kind of worrying
The way someone is
Someone
 
Else                              stubbornly