A blaze of eyeshine at the end of the hall —
is it merely your beloved dog?
Is it a frightened deer, is it a wounded fox
that found a shelter in your second bedroom's darkness?
Is it something larger? Is it something sharper?
Is that bright tapestry backlit by fear or hunger?
Does it bide it's time or does it pine for the comfort
of a friendly hand along its flank?

Although you know you closed the back door,
although you know he often lays there,
although you know the house around you
has never harbored feral beasts, you
still detect a thrill in the air, you
still detect the pong of a deep lair,
you still suspect the boards you stand on
still swear allegiance to the trees.

And what's that dark smear down the length of the wall?
Is it merely your long shadow falling?
Is it the gory trail left by some crippled prey
held in the dripping maw of an insatiable thing?

The window lets no real light in,
all you have is those two circles,
the tenor of the mounting silence,
the flavor of the air to guide you.
Is your dog in the room?
Is a wolf in your dog?
Is a man in the wolf?
Is a dog in the man?
Does he mean you harm or does he need your help?
And how long will you stand there?
How long will you stand there?
Will he rise on hind legs?
Will he walk your way?
Will he embrace you?
Will he speak your name?