Tokyo Allergy

The needle will find you—sink
past sweet shoulder to prevent you
sneezing, surrounded
by flowers. You sympathize with feathers
frightened by a hand that marries harm
with secret intervals of sleep;
suspicious of marriage,
antidotes, the magic
position that slides hip against hip.
In the mornings, I'm your bird,
wings tucked against
the shrill of your alarm: a needlepoint,
a busy day of pecking
heads into skulls,
bodies into bodies.