Can I trace it, that spider footed midnight kiss
that once walked its lips across my crying skin?
Is it hung head down in the cobweb spun across my
crumpled cheek; waiting still? starved rigid?
But no, it ran; I see its mark, staggering spider steps
through dry sand floating on the dust of desert years
at home in emptiness, a secret life uncurled after the
scirocco passes, charming away dead flesh from bone
not even a smell to hang in the drying frame of air.
Any little busy thing consuming convenient corpses
to white skull’s stare knows each precious drop preserves
savor and sweat for a hankering life spent waiting
for the next foolish thing to drop, hamstrung by thirst
lost beyond finding, hallucinating deliverance
blinded by a lunatic sun that tilts the web's sweet spin
to catch an oasis kiss and in mirage to live again.
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featuring Ellen Wilson
Top Image: Web, by Ellen Wilson
Footer image: Blossom, by Ellen Wilsonof Ella's Edge, Used with permission.