The Interruption

It glides imperceptibly, dolly-tracking,

Slower than Gunn's snail, keener than Blake's Tyger.

Look up from the book, survey the room at rest.

Eyes back to the page and it's on you,

Bandages flurrying around your chest,

Hard fingers grabbing your skull,

Neither inside you nor outside.

It strobes, letting go and re-gripping

Until nothing else exists, not the table,

That clock, these words. It hardly sees you,

Leaves slowly, letting you watch.

You begin to breathe. Go back to the book.