untitled

In the house, in the fright,

in the absence of crying, a rustle,

the turn of a head from within.

The darkness is crawling, the skin

is defying but peeling and punctured

and letting it in.

.

When nothing is shining,
no light is defining, a movement,
a gasp and the breath is a lie.

Something is dying, the blindness
of mirrors, the spying, a stumble,

the wolf in the eye.