Spider webs
drop
from that great height.

The drooping wisps of morning
fold into Mantis hands crushing
(with its offer of prayer).

Thus the trees bear
your fruiting memory-diamonds:
the ripened ovary
of your seed-bearing skull.

Yes, yes, you are dying
almost politely so
as these physically painful moths
of the clocktick passage of hours
eat away the juicy sweetness of your face.

Time slithers into your eyes
and you have no recourse
but to swoon in the staggering
anticipation of one of
your supernova head-blooms:

brainwave chorus, soul-startling love-making.

To make love
is to launch yourself into a tirade,
a scream of rebellion
against a life being wrung out in drips
from the entropy rag of this universe.

Smell, smell how her ripened scent
(with the tenderest resilience of spider-string)
drifts out of the window
and onto the streets below.

09/14/2004

Author's Note: Please check out my new book! ;)>

Posted on 09/14/2004
Copyright © 2025 Tom Goss