The beast.

In dusks inching, steel-blue blaze

my home becomes a prodigious maze

of switches and doors

where the minotaur raids

-posing as gas pipes and faucets-

surging his body, and cranial forceps,

through the hazy abundance of walls.

The bellows of that bull

pierce white through the night

quaking the stones, the shutters, the lights.

Hot panic alive on his beastly tongue,

dancing and hissing gibes from his lungs,

whilst I battle with handles, failing my fight.

Desperately, savagely chasing the light that I lose.

Dragged back by the iron-weight of his hooves,

ones I have shoed in canvas and thread

and stitched and fed

their hell-bred tongues to their mouths.