The Fates hate me; others make their bedsprings
squeak, I lay on mine alone. At Night’s Fall

there comes ethereal leathery wings
to scrape at my window and on the wall

misshapen shadows crawl, mimicking trees
swaying in the wind. I love Mister Poe

and all the eldritch dark. I know, and please,
darling, don’t preach. It’s frustrating, I know,

to wait for dark things that do not frustrate
our needs. Across the fields, through the moonlight,

slipping between my sheets. I hate to sleep
alone and I do not know why the Fates

refuse me but I’d rather make the night
all mine than to sit up each night and weep.