Thursday, August 12, 2010


She learned how to scoop space for silk,

mining with her fingers those strings

that stick to skin, soundless

she'd drape the wound then, cobweb-

curtain it ancient—way to stop the blood

With plenty a spider —all those whites

beaded in corners ripe with nets,

and wild creatures who stared by the eye--

some of them stuck by the wing,

she never felt alone

Always on the edge

of listening, she'd strain,

so still to hear a note: let go

let go, they'd whisper

Her finger on the pulse

No comments:

Post a Comment