They say that’s how Milo always slept,
the puppet on one hand, the other hand draped over his face,
as if he did not want to see.
They say that’s how he always dreamt,
eyes wide shut, against the perpetual craze,
of twisted voices and broken peace.
The puppet wove stories of bodies littering the snow
of radio static and eyes beneath the bed.
He kept speaking of an insidious darkness,
even when Milo fell comatose, and even when Milo was dead.