shortcut

italics and lies, they hand each
the same-
what? some ichor perchance,
soft and slow a clingwrapped life
judged upon the shift of snow:
a claw that rakes with
morning breath.

each sound in, each out,
snores ruffling the pillow
and sounds of keys
trying to unlock the sun.

their rattle awakens only the sly
monster from his cave in the honeycomb,
his unhurried steps
keep us frightened for days.

he is 9 foot tall and like
a power tool,

i grip the wall,
bite a lemon,
squeeze a tree,
noodle sympathy.

but still the monster
lumbers on,

i
cry, my
eyes
turn to ice.

he
comes.

*

a beat,
his fists lift the roof right of its bed
and he is peering down at me, pj's;
wall-clock; little ol' me.

snarls, his breath like two trucks
of ham,
and speaks:

time to die

voice booms over the pretence of quiet,
my lying heart feigns death,
and i slump into the bedpost.

when i wake,
snow has covered my body,