WHAT THE SPIDER DREW
The spider carves a skull of white lines
And hangs a mask in your window,
A thin bone face
The spider drew for you.
You unstrap your leather manacle,
The band that bonds you to time.
You rub the strange white brand
Around your wrist, you walk away from what time it is.
Outside, trees click and sing.
Cicadas send communiqués
About the invasion; their bards strum chanteys
About the breaking off skin,
The redemption reached through
The cracking back.
Bodies whittle again the wall in fire,
Ash-white, torsos dancing against the wall
In the headlights’ blaze,
The fiery cone of a lantern
Pointed straight up to Rigel.
The spider is waiting inside
Next to your watch. Four trees of cicadas stop talking. You body
Splits open down the spine.
Something crawls out, flexing its wings.
26 August 1976—27 January 2016