Your healing,

random,

magnetic,

barely understood,

as you intend.

Home to refugees,

your face reaches in

and palpates (like a surgeon)

that fluttering life muscle

behind their eyes,

and leaves them anaesthetised

with wisdom.

As your moon-tides wax and wane,

these words,

the iron filings of my own secret armour,

cling to your magnet eyes

for company.