Wolvesclamp, incorrectly addressed

In my dreams the dead have come

to blackwash the windows. The glass

is steamed with screaming wolvesbreath.

A cloudy thickness fills the room

that throttles the air and drives

it from your mouth, with hands

gearing bony elongated fingers.

They're far too early, you think,

but they might not have come for me.

Every other alternative in this house

is unthinkably imaginable, nowever.

You shout out at them, "take me, me",

but they cannot hear you. You wake up,

my hands clamped around your throat.