We are chugging to your death
on the panting rhythm of your breath.
I crush lavender buds under your nose –
you open your mouth like a baby bird.
You sleep with eyes wide, gaze turned in.
I see into depths without being checked.
On day three your eyes rise to the surface.
Your lips are moving. I lean in.
You’re hopeless! you hiss.
You are the death adder, Acanthophis.
I flee your bedside. You slip back
into your body’s fevered decoupling.
First published in Envoi