Eyes Keep The Cold

Why is there wheat
on the bed? I ask his black
eye, the rule.

We had become
friends this way.

He flashed his mirror at me.
I swam a little,
in some naked, sweet
night. On shore

he is different
than the rest, not level and
moons sit beneath
his eyes. Clothes-pins,
a tender storm.

Sometimes we lie speechless
like ghosts and think about how we hate normal sentences
and how we will die believing in snow.