Closing down, both eyes make room
for your jaw –an ancient trade-off
though the teeth still have watermarks

and your mouth a cemetery left over
the way mourners still look for shoreline
face into the wind till all running water

smells from salt and the loosening
graves swallow for safekeeping
–in such a darkness this single faucet

stays cold, turning in front the mirror
as if some blackened weathervane
half iron, half numb, clings to your hand

returning with place to place, yours
not yours, vaguely two and above the sink
the climb feeling its way in, weed by weed.