The Lying Web Of Shadows

A cat with no face appears in the window--and I’m on the third floor in here.
The houseplants are whimpering little blades
that chatter like prisoners.

She’s pregnant--belly full ‘a eyeless numbers.
She grooms her fur with her little jackknife of a tongue, and I tremble.

Can’t help but think this is a
threat of some sort, some implication
at my demise.

“I’ll call the fucking cops!” I shout.

Then

without much noise, a woman enters the room
and lets her clothes
slide off

like ice sheets melting into the Arctic.

“What on earth is it?” She asks.
“You look concerned.”