It’s just the old trickster, Death,
you know, moving around in the dark,
bumping your furniture, rattling
your cups, spreading your silverware
on the throw rug in Satanic patterns.
It’s just Mr. D and his bag of swindles.
When you wake it will seem a
dream. You will shake off its portent.
Until, sometime later in the day,
you will reach into your pocket and
find the soft, folded poem, its words
etched in shining blood, its title your
name as it will appear in the final rolls.
