In the dark corridor
of the house I am haunting
(it towers on flimsy foundations
is all duck egg cornices
hangs a dark curtain.
When I brush it aside
(it rustles like breath in whisker hairs
and is as slender)
something slides further into the shadows.
I am not at pains to know what
this retreating figure
(because it was that – solid, if on wheels,
led perhaps, a stiffened toy
pulled by something darker.) is.
I let the fabric drop
and ripple off into the light
but now there is a new thing
caught there in the crux of my diaphragm.
I shoulder off fear and attend to new
footsteps in the dusty debris.