Some days, a morning rises
too fat and round- its greedy
sky so empty. It spills
to ground, a hairy edge
flush with hidden movement.
Through that undergrowth
of untrimmed hedges,
of thigh and chin, nerves
tangle in skin as spiders
burrow. Down beneath dark
soil- not black in needing light,
just invisible, like silk
threads caught in a breeze.
Or a hurricane. In either
case, fragile.
The spinning laces clouds
together. In time the web,
so vast, it holds the sky
in place,
as youth is swallowed
and the past digested-
lips first, then tongue.
Finally, there is silence.
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