Samuel Minier:

Writing in the Dark

Windows painted blind by night

gaze from hollow stark walls, staring a

corpse’s concern.

Pillow squats among the shredded

blanket-skin of sprawling mattress,

ugly underbelly up.

X marks the mirror, bullseye middle

shattered outward, a spider

web of crimson glistening.

Bundled piles of empty bodies,

stomped impressions, footfalls stalking

toward the closet-mouth:

Toothed with sagging shelves and dirty

corners, while the rows of glassy

eyes within behold the running

shadows pooled like rouge on

wooden faces, gaping wide,

whirling in, swinging shut.

And in muffled echoing,

only childish minds hear the

creaks of chewing.