the thing

The thing
in between the 
hanging dresses
that bleeds 
into the corner
rotting head
a biting line against
the nightlight
letting you
search the darkness
before finding your eyes
and you jerk into
a stupor
watching as 
the thing 
claws the closet doorknob
with burning
fingers
of charcoal smoke
stark against the 
wallpaper
floral print parting
where the thing
speads it claws
pulling its mass from
the hazy 
hanging
dresses
puncturing
the floorboards
as it lurches on
cricket legs
joints bending
shining coat 
stretching
maw twitching
as it rips the edge of your
bedspread
threads popping 
like little fabric mouths
frozen mid scream
your finger grow
numb where 
they bunch the 
blanket 
the thing 
makes you think
of that book you read
with the boy
and the tiger
and the boat
and you think maybe
this thing
is breathing dream
or some dangling puppet
of the mid night hour
born in the fog 
of a tired mind
it tracks your hand 
as you grasp for the 
lamp
and as you flick on the light
the thing
dissapears
and you are alone in the boat
and morning comes 
and the clock chimes
and your boat docks
in familiar waters
no eyes between the
hanging dresses
in the sideways light
but as your hand drifts
to lift the covers
you find tears in the 
fabric
frozen mid scream
and you look up
to see crisscrossed 
traintracks
scrape the wallpaper
and the thing
has found some dark puddle yet
crooning in the morning sun
it is real
i never left