There is an eye
that is watching, like fire,
in the way
of socket twists, fever,
red.

Winking
in dread, wide, and fearing.
Pupil shrinking
in sensing
things around the bend.

Frantic,
it’s moving,
hoping to catch light,
or shadow—

but not
the sound,
that echoes, in dreams.
Not the nothing,
that’s creeping,
forcing open

the insides.

It’s quick.
too quick in fact,
for the

eye

to follow.
A breath.