In Jeffrey Dahmer’s dwelling
the clock arrow clicks,
and as the sound in the air reverberates, the soul on the floor floats into the sky.
So do the memories in his mind,
that don’t even say goodbye.
The man’s lungs, full an exact minute ago,
complete an inward crumple,
releasing the pain;
the man’s slowly beating heart
finally stops
the liberating, lasting exhale,
and the other, apprehended mid-step
above the frozen corpse,
satisfies their inner desires
and dives into a pool full of blood.

As a killer he had a conscious
with an image of bodies.
He was alive.
He was awake.
His attention was on the door;
that this wooden piece of wall
with its silver knob
and little window
has socket for its tailored key
that he could lock for eternity.