Little mad mouse face,
Old glove on a nail,
In a lightless place;

Small furred bird of night,
Eyeless aerialist,
In your prescribed flight:

In our screams you hear,
Across ancient dusks,
Our blood’s antique fear

Ever clothed anew
In tales, round our fires,
of evil you do.

This is from Walter's new book of poetry, Touched by Its Rays. You can order a copy here.