a thousand years between motels

there is moss on the bathroom tile,  
 unknown fox-red drops    
 licking the basin's lip...burning,    
dripping    
     
the soap in my eyes    
 I dropped   
acid rain    
     
 it stung, birthed    
 baby sacred leaches in cavities    
of my ciliary body    
     
and they slip poorly-    
poorly on the ceramic/    
     
 if i had mouth eyes    
     
 I would have    
 asked her for the towel...      
     
but she has pale membranes    
under her lids...    
she calls them    
 songbirds.    
 she calls them home    
 and they fly back    
 in flute-blue fog.    
     
we dismember    
our blindness    
together    
     
it deports    
and serves us
 
we are nothing more    
than the absence    
 of sight.