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Thursday, August 11, 2011

Closet creep

From between
the hanging coats,
the pale glow
of its radium eyes,
the smell of ozone
in its smile.

A sound emerges
from its throat
like winter droplets
touching the keys
of a toy piano
missing for years

that grow longer
as minutes collapse.
Hear the seconds
ticking out now,
before, and after,
and once again now.


This poem started out as a simple description of one of those nightmare clowns you might encounter as part of an overactive imagination during childhood, or from a Stephen King story. But then the poem seemed to warp in on itself and decide it was about something else entirely.

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