I’ve contracted the mindborne strain
that enters through the dream.
On city streets dark with rainless storming
a woman runs, stumbles, forces herself up again,
staggers forward with drunken determination.
The hands are chasing her. They are huge
white electric ghosts floating at the end
of arms that trail off into mist,
kites on an endless strings.
They are built of infected bodies.
They will collect the woman
and add her to their mass
if she is not fast enough.
I spend the night in a hotel room
with two 1920s prostitutes.
One has an infected abusive boyfriend
who keeps banging on our door.
I bar the entrance with furniture
and hold my breath.