Brown Recluse sails the morning thread,
droops down with the peony, ascends
a reaching clematis: open and gloried blue
angel-- creeper still slick with night wet.
There is no place that the weaver won't
reach; its spinnerets are furiously graced.
And there is nothing that will wake
you now that the side rails have been lowered,
your clutching hand removed.
When you left, your face became a tunnel,
narrow and lightless; your mouth an entry only.