Ode to One Thing Wicked

As I turned on my hall light
there he was again as when
we were.

I had salted the snail
and the son of a bitch
for three years chased me.

I could always end him in sleep
and loved my senses.
The remote blinking with me

the blood rushing his eye backs,
and on its way through the wind pipe
snap neatly like rats’ necks in lucky traps.

This wore down the nights;
at first good and then more
and more gross,

impending, relevant;
the counter-clock for Second Coming.
I won’t tell you my drill

but when I did it,
it was finally, wholly horror—
and not silent.  Not at all;

he screamed and I came
running to it, dripping
like a Pavlov bitch in a bell jar.