You move formless in and out of the stripes of light through closed blinds. You are not what you seem, staggering to our cold treblinka bed. Your arms bloat and disappear. Where did you go, my croaky sleep voice calls out. From here you have no eyes. From here I see you in another life-- a dripping grin over a prostrate prisoner, looking to the camera a gentle nod, holding in your palm the teeth you so precisely extracted. The black hooded figure in the doorway who comes for you with electrical wires, a screw driver, a pair of pliers Who comes who comes who comes for the venom smile you didn't even know you had in a life you did know, passing through the space between the dark and the light. Losing yourself, you are enormous, You are nothing. You breathe up my spine. I don't move. I wouldn't dare.