You are now aware of your eyelashes,
long, graceful, and gently
pulling away from your eyelid.
You are now aware of the last time
one shed,
like a dead branch from a tall tree,
and landed,
floating,
on the surface of your vision.
Tonight,
when the lights are off
and the full moon gazes,
bloodshot,
through your window,
you will wake with a sudden start –
a pain in your eye,
something sharp,
something rough,
an eyelash that is not your own.
they are knocking on my windows,
men with thin fingers and
the appetites of wolves.
Their breath fogs the glass,
stinks through the windowpane:
abandoned barns full of
hollowed cattle,
skin turned brittle,
the too-sweet smell of
rotten grain.
They are thin as shadows,
their fingers work through the storm-guards,
sliding easily into the room.
they are standing and
watching me sleep,
these men with thin fingers
and the appetites of wolves.
Darkness crawls across the windows
Solitude is driving me insane –
I wish for an ancient foreign duchess or
shambling masses mouthing “Brains!”,
But all there is – is night, and creaking,
car-lights leaking past the panes,
The cold seeping through the floorboards,
The spiders rattling their chains.
