Wednesday, March 8, 2017


Morning Spider

What were you trying to say
from down the dry well
of our German coffee maker? 
A brusque “guten Morgan”,
unworthy of the finesse required
to defeat the hinged plastic lid,
“bugger off mate” belying
the English taste for tea,
begging bus fare for the Silk Road
transparent, even without a bracing first cup.
A caution, then? 
Don’t leave bags unattended,
know the warning signs of stroke,
sleep like a baby with two-step
But your solitude, small bare bulb
of abdomen, put me in mind
of a monks tonsure, choirmaster
alone in the apse, dwarfed
by vaulting cathedral walls
soaring seamless into heavenly gloom,
where I hover on high, indifferent
god commanding the flood waters,
bestowing random flies of mercy,
deigning to lower a spoon of salvation
while you weave a gossamer chorale,  
working the tiny shuttles of your batons.


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