Darkness seen between the snug pillow
and the warm winter cover.
My fingers reach out,
perhaps more to be in fashion than compulsion,
Next day, I show-off
the feel-object that I didn't foresee
in my hand.
You see the over-trodden fingers,
but my burning consolation
is the Banquo inside.
(Should I rather make a doll or mask of it?)
What for me is certainty,
you consider vague to console me.
The titans are no more, but...
(If you can stand the stench of urine)
your fingers, multiplying and interlacing
(imagine the pain)
may picture the original murder.