It would come slowly and quietly, slipping in jelly-like
Through the chinks of my closed doors and windows,
Spiraling at first, clouds of black blood, in my calm
Then settling slowly down like dregs into my cup,
The corners, below the table, under the bed,
And behind the rows of books on the shelves.
(It would go as quietly, in a reverse motion—
Leaving you feeling empty, curled up like a shrimp.)
The clear-eyed morning would find me asleep, naked
With the sings of night all over—bruises on my body
And smears all over the bed, floor, walls and ceilings.
I would sleep on dreaming of clouds of black blood.