He doesn’t even have to knock –
already we feel his presence around the house
while he scratches his bristle from the quoins
and blows his icy breath from crannies invisible
straight in our necks or through our clothes to the crotches.
Our breath inside freezes on the windows
but his warm breath outside is melting
the icy blossoms that drip down the windowpanes
or is that him drooling from the avaricious snout
of his scalding covetousness with which he watches us
how slain or skinned alive, still smoking,
we are blurring his sight, poor thing…
Should we let him in so we could come out
from the underground like snails, naked or with our shells,
or should we hit the road with our souls through the chimneys
as some tardy migrating storks:
so that he could accommodate in our homes
with famine in the gut and hatred in his heart
and we should trot along the serrated fences
of his fucking god-forsaken wolf-ring?