Growling garble of the outside:
What saying you?

Are you chanting a curse
into the woodwork, bowing beams
into me,
so to touch a girl
without your hand, nor lip?

Things that creep
do no perceive
the things of body, but of tender
feeling. A subtle shush.

A sense,
wriggles, as a nightmare thumbs pages quick

To get to the deep part.

Pound at the door:
Are you knocking?

Or insisting a nightcap?

You know I can not stop you from entering.