Where one thread clings to the eye of the needle;
two lids brought together in a parody of sleep,
Or death. Careful, don’t touch my blister eye, don’t
puncture it. It could bleed out everything I have ever seen.
My sewn-shut eyes trap everything.
Except the moon
is where it has always been, itself a bloated corpse eye.
It watches me, shows me your face, its glow piercing my lids.