• DIANE M. LABODA • Neurosis I wonder how they survive those eye-less things, the ones that move around the room, hovering just above the floor, almost, but never quite, bumping into my legs. They hum, those eye-less things, a tune just off my hearing as if to say to one another there are legs afoot in our space, dance lively, step sharp, reach around. They glide past me, those eye-less things, and shimmer when they pass from room to room as if giving up a toll to the doorjamb-gnome for multiplying in the parlor. They commune under the chairs, seeking haven from legs and rungs, seeking dust bunnies residing there, whipping them up in clouds and depositing them firmly in the corners behind the couch. They settle around midnight, those eye-less things, leaving me alone to my other neuroses and line up against the wall. I want them to know they’re welcome so I leave the candles burning and lock the door.
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