Night Visitor (slightly revised)

It was a silverfish on the wall.
In the cone-glow of a lampshade.

They elicit
bad dreams of housedeeps.

A spider, you think a loner.
Execution, then forget it.

A neatly-folded moth, narrow squared
wings is a grandmother's attic.

It's that fishy name,
you think of how they must teem.

In the dark walls
their movements a chaos of crossings
under and over.

Schoolcraft. Skittery hexes.
Lousy with legs.

Having seen one sprint
its wending way down textured paint,
silver-flash
you don't want to take your eyes off.

I hate them.
Please, deliver us from the creeps.

Springtime, all I want to see
are ladybug orgies in the woodwork.

They make you dream
of vaulted ceilings you cannot reach.