What, on this night, stirred?
And those two tiny lights –
can they be anything else but eyes?
For what reason does this bed,
the pillow, the sheets, the mattress,
encroach on the beast’s domain?

Such a silence, as if all living matter
is so over heartbeats, is done with breath,
can only freeze up at the icy sensation
of something other in the room.
But the throat clenches, releases, gasps.
A scream may come of this yet.