Spider, the color of explosion,
climbs the ladder of words on the screen.
Crystal, a bead, fencepost parachute. Settles on my right upper corner.
These rejected creatures connect us to life. I marvel at shared contentment.
In the city, would never let crawl on me. But here
Crow screams on the apex,
I say, “You sound ridiculous.”
A woman with lace shadows over her eyes,
Seated upon a chestnut horse, Queen of England, battle smile and
the creases of long ago statue
a tired line down her unphotographed face,
poem tacked to the fridge filled with Corona.
Last Sunday, Pennsylvania with my nose in your ear.
This Sunday, alone in Virginia horse country, drinking wine with newlyweds,
beside the creatures you taught me to love.
It’s May and
I’m in a bath, first of the last decade, filled the tub with scald,
reddened skin but it feels
Gray spider has brown lines on her arms–er, legs,
eight series of circles,
like the woman making onion soup in the kitchen,
her infant son belly flat on the wood.
My nose found your ear again.
I put my finger in your mouth
to examine your backward teeth, because I love you, fiercely.
Even though you despise adverbs: Control F and delete every -ly.
Adverb was the first stab of love.
Farmhouse full of spiders, creaking dusty and brass.
Mailbox petaled white, as a tomb, black cape over the white-rosed desk,
boxes contain the letters of the poem(s) I will write for you,
bread crumb black-ink paths for one
Electron spider, suns herself, the tear drops from the willow firefly upon the pond,
She feels right at home, doesn’t she?