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.