There are no hiding places left, Cal.
Every dark space isn’t really dark
but pinkish black, flesh and oblivion,
filled with me, with us, deathly
and breathless and holding on, skin
about to split and give us away.
Is it better to run? Run down
the street—the floating red hand
that means don’t walk looks
like a heart. But I’m too afraid.
If we just close our eyes truly enough,
believing hard, no peeking, we can
be invisible. Don’t let him find
us, Cal. Don’t let him find us again.