All day they lie like corpses on sills, in corners
And masquerade as dust.
Night falls. I find them fluttering
Under my cats’ paws, describing perfect circles,
Their dance enticing
The very thing they fear,
Those longed-for claws.
Death cannot come too soon for them, it seems.
Rescued, they return. Consigned to darkness,
Cling to the window-glass,
Pink eyes afire with lust, the Undead, craving
That final, fatal light.