In the crawl space hides a boy who can’t let a word be heard.

The hills tonight are waiting, but all his friends went home.

A black robed man beats at the door and the heart rings hollow.

They built his own room, up stairs in the eave where he sits dormant.

They keep stuff there they seldom need but don’t want to discard.

The trash in ponds is sinking, junk cars rest on dirt roads.

He brings the book of life and death by which he lives below.

Procrustean bed for clown, dunce, heretic measures his torment.

He discovers his gifts they pushed way back down in the dark.

Spider threads snag him sleeping until he starts alone.

Knock, knock. Who’s there? It’s your savior. Your savior who you know.

He sees everything, “forgive us our sins” is his informant.

Hate your mother and your father, leave all this and follow.

Pulled from the corner a dead scar thickens against the doorman.

Time stops its tripping, the child remembered lasts not a moment.