What Five Days Up Will Do
There is a lofty gaunt man standing beside my window.
A long-necked, long-legged bird perhaps, very still.
The contour vague in this dark; hard to know.
There is a tiny gaunt woman in my clothes hamper.
A small-limbed, small-clawed crustacean, rustling shirts.
The closet seems remote; I’d know the laundry.
There are several gaunt dotards inside my mattress.
A swarm of vermin throbbing coils, vermin prodding sheets.
The bed shuddering; I know this.
There are several gaunt childs floating above my pillow.
A mesh of webbing, meshed ocelli, blanketing light.
Spider-jaws, these itsy-bitsies: I’m known to see.
I turn from it, catch an eyeful of afternoon rays.
The man-bird drawing the curtain,
beak-lips peeking out.