EYELASHES rustle, your look drifts beneath
thin ice. Daylight crouches above us.
We get up and neither knows which face
will waken with them. The window is a huge garden.
Silence opens in the air, and sleep
still glows, is warm, is coloured with apples.
The morning turns with the earth, and a blackbird
hops through your first sentences: that’s how trust grows
in the repetition that forgets you. The light
tells us we’re awake. We get up. Time
is unreachable between breaths. And this feeling
for your hand when the sentences lose the way.