The yellow papers chuckle as they scatter to the floor
The garish scribble answers wink in grey loop arcs
I guess it’s getting late, I think I’m going mad
The walls are breathing heavy and I press their wooden sides,
But the carpet symbols spin and the ceiling’s closing in
And the only haven space is the space above the bed
Far above the monsters grumbling round their ancient tissue teeth
So I squirrel under the sheets and I mutter something strange
Some silent invocation: something ancient, something real
And the monsters lumber back into their dusty sock lairs
And the room comes ashore from its tossing carpet sea
And I breathe.
And fall back into sleep.