Sandman

The night is fresh

and the body rots.

Unoccupied,

unwitnessed,

it jolts — rises —

gathers itself.

Flesh is best

for what it is assigned.

It'll drag back a man

who couldn't sleep —

a beating heart

ripe for nightshade.

It'll make a garden

in his mouth,

hang garlands

from his teeth seams

to flutter in the breeze

if he breathes.

He'll feel the dew,

not see it,

as the body feeds

a heavy pocket

two more stones,

glitter-soft, fading.

It'll drop the pocket

onto his chest

and crumble into soil

before the sun finds it.

At dusk, the fresh body

rots — jolts — rises.