in collaboration with Cory Brock
Across a day lit ground divine,
sliding by, and makes no sound,
a serpent sent by time goes round.
Through windowsills and down dark
on the ceilings, on the walls—
on the lamps, and in the attic,
a hiss the sound of TV static,
As by it goes, it’s fluid motion.
Ouroboros eats itself, and chokes,
and the serpent’s time revoke,
left to circle in its head,
with no more day lit ground, instead,
the serpent grows two legs, and stands,
on two feet, so he can greet,
life’s phantom caravan.
The taste of fear, and long held dreams,
digested turns to nightmare screams.
The monster in all closets,
live inside our head.
He’s there for life, and whispers fright,
his purpose nothing else;
the monster in the closet is the self.