GUILT

The turning of a doorknob,
looking through the killer's eyes
as he moves through:
Empty salons. Corridors. Salons. Doors.

We used the flashlights to
illuminate the snow on the trees,
rising steam caught in the beams.

I'm on my hands and knees
peering into the drain,
with a backwards glance at the door,
listening for the sound of footsteps.