Eclipse Sitting

Milk-light wall. A black disc hovers,
like a hush cupped in both hands.
The brim cools your crown—
a slow moon lowered onto day.

Your hair—platinum tide—
combs itself into one obedient wave.
Brows, pale reeds. Your skin keeps the weather out.
Studio air smells of starch and quiet.

Your mouth—signal red—
a harbour lamp, steady.
Between breaths it almost opens,
as if to name this stillness,
as if a syllable could bite through snow.

Then a turn: the disc behind you moves—
no: the room slips, the world adjusts its aperture.
You become a small eclipse one could wear,
a coin of night against the forehead of noon.
Somewhere, a shutter clicks,
and the light believes your silence.