The lamps have been put out. The dark moves in
Steadily upon the bed and chair.
The room is growing wider where
There is no light. The bedroom walls begin
To wait. Heavy, tense with their own will,
The mirrors hang, the tables stand
Fast, while the soft corners expand
Indefinitely outward. The floor holds still.
We are glassed in, reflected in the panes
Of looming windows. We lie flat,
Face up, under the smothering blanket.
Then in the yards the terrible dogs break their chains
And come roaming across the rugs to pant in our faces
With murky breath. They sniff at our heads.
We hear them, feel their paws on our beds.
They are smiling. They move with intelligent paces.
Our bright blood waits murderous in the arteries
We think in the groin. And the furtive ear
Deep inside heeds the dogs. We hear
Nothing we can tell of. But as our eyes
Widen upon them, and they pack the brain,
And begin to expand indefinitely inward,
They hunt in the mind. They pad around
Inside. There is no way out. And who can chain
The dogs inside the head before they front
And mangle in huge jaws the thing they hunt?