You put Tai-Pan down. You are emotionless.
The last inch of Jack beckons. You are amphetamine.
You break the glass against the wall. You are diligent
in observation. There is a stirring within the wall.
You are envisioning the greying of insulation, nails
within two-by-fours, moonlight somehow.

It is a rat. You think otherwise. It is all glinty knee
and ichorous hook. You put your good ear to the chest
of the room. There a giant. You drop to one knee.
A stone hits the window. You find in this no reason
to discontinue. You hear the fire of a car on the road.
Whinny of a horse, breath-white in dark stable.

The sea is in alarum. You are content. The context
is blessed horror. You put Tai-Pan down. Congreve.