Dead Something
       

In my bed: a droplet of dyed-black school glue
gently dripped onto a page.
Except its end was not so gentle.
Insect? Spider? Even in sleep,
I must wage war.
Or did it drink from a poisoned corner,
crawl up on its own to curl,
seek rest, release, while I,
an archaeologist of night,
disturbed its bones? Bones?
Let's say legs like lashes,
exoskeleton, smattering of eyes
too small to see.

Whatever it was, it ended
near the concert hall
of my percussive breathing,
carefree drum circle of snores.
I didn't notice until morning,
too caught up in light-hearted dreaming
to appreciate the nightmare at my side.

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