At sundown the shadows come to the door—
don't ring—just cast themselves on the frosted window.
Or three children play on the floor
just around the corner, never quite in view;
the tick and whisper of toys that can't be there;
sudden movements; flickers in the fading bars of light.
What can you bring between two ordinary hands
to distract from what a troubled soul
must fashion from the orange script
that bleeds through the drawn blinds,
when the sun leaves a gap in the western rim
of the world, and all that's real runs out?
The King of Nightmares checks his horse—
pauses on the hill—rides on.