that need to be dragged out from under the bed. Or from within it. Real things that frighten me. That won't be trapped on a page like the petals of a dead flower. That avoid words, hiding in dreams. All the play things on the page are too easy. Real things resist because I am frightened of them. But they are there. I hear them moving around down there like crabs. One day I will kneel down and lift the corner of the blanket.