Tell me, which of your tender spots
brushed against the sheets last night
And set your skin aflame?
A dew soaked morning is
Your eyelids, resting
On your cheekbones.
Watch the round
of your face in semi-opaque
glass become an ash grey moon-
Move your lips against the mirror,
Beg for a needle to stem the pain;
the chill of the sea
pulsing through your veins
your paper thin body fluttering
against the North waves.