The Spider

An angel's poison squirted through night skies
sets the heart thumping in a blink of stars.
Tatters of cobwebs are my only scars.

From fusty stables trots the fly-blown foal
whose charm is to forget its sickliest meal.
We cannot be the one whose pain we feel,

nor housetrain elders in their muddled socks,
one slipping westward as the other wakes.
But why not love them for each other's sakes?

And why not love the spider like the lamb
whose work is wool, of which your love's a groom?
And why not weave your life-line on its loom?


Safe Dreams

Though you cover me safe
with a hat, slice of sleep,
...