There is a great, black beast
brushing his fur against the door.
He listens for an answer,
a quivering breath, a whisper.
Sometimes he paces the hall;
sometimes he waits.
I lock my lungs ever so still
for no subtle movement at all
and the clock holds eleven-ten
for eleven whole minutes long.
He knocks once. He knocks twice,
the second louder than its last.
His shadow casts orange light,
like an October moon.
It moves from quarter, to crescent,
to new, and stays as the room darkens.
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