Sunday, July 30, 2017
Insect mummies festoon right angles,
evincing perils brought to pass, the hidden
sublimity of spiders; dropping plumb bob
of riddling arachnids on your domicile
pane, making questions out of subtractions -
the mites, the flies, moths and mosquitoes:
would you smash one as I, or lob me out,
for having cleaned without notice these motes
infernally buzzing, that from your blood would eke
their multiples, or hole your clothes? Your cry
calling husband is only because milk bright
enamel starks me out like a feign while
my diligence is lost upon your insulated
sight; chancing upon me in the shower
everything about me appears to appear;
and so humoured even my skeleton is bared
on the outside, that once before I sloughed off
on your closet floor. Too affront for being threat,
I'm not your fright's true wooer in the tub.
Rather this is what everyone is scared of:
they are petrified of five minutes ago,
and all that it contains. Like the moon's half shadow.
What they need to wake up to, soon or late.
You were not frightened that one sable night
I rested on your sleeping cheek each of my
legible legs, near your smile line, and listened
to the enormous dream ghost from your lips. I was a clasp
on your face like a severed hand. Never harmed you.
Day shocks to see the way I drop down from
a thread, like an hourglass line of sand.