It was found in the fog that shivered
The slivers of glass in the windows.
It was seen in the sheen of the moon
On the unworn wood of the floor.
It spoke with the slow, patient clutching of light
And tapped out the unknown codes of the flesh,
The indistinct worm of the years and the shapes
Of desire, possession, and fate.
It was mute.
It was stitched in the spaces
Of the wind’s alphabet.
It was clothed in cool hands
Gloved in wet weather.
It appeared on the paths
That admitted no passage.
Its ratchety rhythms
Were all made of matchsticks.
Its slashings were tattooed
On drapes of dank velvet.
Its gibbering laughter inserted itself
Between doorway and jamb and continued to carve.
Its snickering plumbing
Rotted the dinner.
They had left, they had left.
Indeed, they had left.
Of that, all their objects could clearly attest.