Tall thin rack of man
in a cheap dark suit
glides around the room,
ice skater on wood,
not on surface but above.
Fire outside.
Maybe the whole house,
or the whole world.
But I’m cold anyway.
You think this is
“just a nightmare?”
Who’s watching you
at night? Are you sure
things are not ash
when you sleep
and solid when you wake?
And why are you so attached
to only walking on the floor?
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Dark Matter 