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 the clothes hamper.
A small limbed, small clawed crustacean rustling shirts.
The closet seems remote, I’d know my laundry.

There are several dotards inside my mattress.
A swarm of vermin throbbing coils, vermin prodding sheets.
The bed where I lie shuddering, I know this.

There is a child floating above my pillow.
A mesh of webbing, latticed ocelli blankets light.
A spider-jaw, the itsy bitsy. I’m known to see it.

I turn from it, catch an eyeful of afternoon rays.
The man-bird drawing back curtain.
Then black.