Mountains form beneath your eyelids
Made of drifting sands.
Eons of tectonic shifts
In every blink's swift span.

I try to name their shade
But each day I change my mind:
On a blue morning I say, pale
In our dim room, black.

Once, I leaned so close
And to my shock
I saw a snake's skin, there
Transparent, unshed
I hear the hiss on your breath.
© Zazozaliad