A terrible claw has hit me
it lives in the picture carpet
don't ask me I don't know
what it is but it is
atrum
a black machine
there are fewer
words they shrink
at the edge of cigarettes
nice no longer but terrible
the hoof at the temple
the brink of something else
less than I've ever been
over forward when I close them
a key to what I don't want
to know at four at night in a dark rain
and left over hanging in the sky
in the early morning and children
laugh the leaves flat nature
I don't believe a single word
grab the grit from the cobblestones
regne terrible pure horror in both my
rooms since my nails every one of them
lost swelled up with a whitish crust, turned
to screws in one inscrutable night