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Hungry He
With lights turned out,
my sheets insulating,
I stare with my eyes closed
at windowpaned visions.
He looks in, shift-shaped,
eyes wide and hungry;
he turns the sky red
and the moon as he comes.
What waits? What hungers?
Perhaps nothing. How am I
to know? He comes
in my darkness and closing eyes.
The darkness blazes.
He watches, silent and huge.
In my eyelids I see him,
uncertain, wondering.
With lights turned out,
my sheets insulating,
I stare with my eyes closed
at windowpaned visions.
