(Aaron posteth. Pathetic taketh away.)

If, perhaps, I could be certain
that nothing more horrific than
a moth straight out of Japanese
fiction would fly in, I might
open my window, let in the thick
black night, the humidity of summer
slow to surrender to crisp Autumn breezes.

But I know that something is out there.
I know a dark and shapeless form is lurking.
It speaks, rabbidly, in many forbidden tongues.
Scraping frantically against the window,
it sinks razor-nailed fingers into the glass.

The city was never this loud.
I could count on the traffic from
the highway, the odd bit of Mexican
music drifting to me from a passing low-rider.
The glare from the floodlights laid bare
all treacherous corners. Anything could
get me, but I'd see its face in stark relief.

I can never be sure of my predators here.
No knife-carrying rapists in the cornfields
of Indiana. No streets for the killers to wander.
Just my head, and the inky silence of
nowhereland, pressing itself into my skin.
I hear you. I hear you. I know you will come.

09/21/2005

Posted on 09/29/2005
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