When The Attack Comes

Like a tantric I will 
gather you and make you sleep 
in my eyes. 

In lantern festival, I 
will be fighting dark 
with hundred wicks. 

The dead will come 
back to talk about their 
amputated thumbs. 

You had no bona fides 
to tell me how blue were 
my aches. 

I don't find any metaphor 
in this qualified decay, 
wiping my glasses to see clearly.