Beastie time of year
there’s a hard-winged moth clattering in my lamp shade
windowsill mortuaries attended by flies on their backs buzzing grief
spiders the size of your hand skulk
malevolent as a daddy long legs dances by
carelessly dropping a limb to the floor –
after all, it has plenty to spare
mysterious webs appear to sneakily caress my damp skin
while, outside the house, the air is grainy with revolving opportunists
one tiny chink and ceiling constellations evolve then re-form
black walls and tiny corpses are raining onto my bed
meanwhile that swooping midge stops torturing me
to dive into my dinner
