I’ve spent all day being a fool,

like robins’ bob in stalks,

tendrils grip firm,

early March,

winter still present.

 I wake up

crying out.

Somebody’s impression left on the mattress,

sheets gone,

pillows uncloaked;

the master has left.

Doors unlocked,

carpets trampled

and this beating heart in the kitchen braises past its alarm

into caramelization and char.

Dreams,

all them tunnels

burrowing down;

into chasms

under constant scour,

pruned between

honed flanks,

scouting hordes

lashing

tentacles through bait-balled peasantry,

husbands’ dire

sprung, rendered madness

caught in the thicket’s latch.