72 Hours

The sheets curl red,
the ba-boom-ba-boom of the clock hand
sweeps upwards towards the witching hour.

In bluing cold the cavity sinks open, in hindrance
of that name; that name without face, without twenty-fourth rib,
without liver to pluck—
the hounds groan beneath the rotting pane of my
withdrawing space not far from the thin window moving
as a pair of rising owl wings.

Wallpaper walls filleted messy with
a paring knife; fat straining bulbs hang themselves
above on cords that swing from old age and the weathering
of the constant dark.

The black ekes as ichor, bulging corpulent in the corpus
of consciousness.
Two hemispheres backwards burst apart,
dangling in slack-jawed blindness.

Pulling upwards from out my head, two eyes, peek out,
darting as rabbits do from holes. Screaming.

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