Another domestic poem, born out of nothing more than strange noises regularly heard at night outside my window in the very office where I now sit. The poem’s approach owes a great debt to the wonderful ending of Thomas Ligotti’s horror story “Nethescurial,” which is why I eventually dedicated the poem to him. As luck would have it, I actually got to show the poem to Ligotti himself, and he dug it and told me he felt honored. So I suppose I can die gruesomely happy.
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