Twelve inches beneath the frame
from a gilded era,
a time before mind
before all the round tables
became warped and rotted,
it waits,
breathing,
rancid, raspy, exhales.
Floorboards creak under its restlessness,
its weight shifting positions.
Claws and teeth that once crunched
under a waving swastika,
sharpen themselves on dreams
caught on coiled springs.
There will be no sleep, no comfort, no making of love
tonight.
I need to watch, to listen, because nothing, not
Mother Earth, whiskey, pot, ludes, crucifixes, garlic, salty skin, warm milk, promotions or prayers
will dissuade it.
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