Poem: Dream Caught

 

 

Dream Caught

 

garden spiders

yellowy moons in scythe ballets,

weave amok, windy as swallows,

 

no fear of my godzilla-size head,

theater for their puppet show.

 

their legs wheel airy letters,

sentences of half-seen languages,

such agile spinners of plots and spells,

vortices of phrase and world,

obsessed to instigate a novel, it seems, 

about a fractured, frazzled ghost,

 

a soul compartmentalized and captured,

who fled the harangue of a city of tombs. 

the fantastical octets,

orange with lust or peachful sweet,

or puzzled blue ink or pink with rage,

 

they know all would be fine,

if only the godzilla head--the ghost, the poet--

would look back at them  

and dream.

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8/25/25 ... who knows what the hell is going on here, I don't...

4/27/24 

3/19 "fantastical" replaces "perceptive"

phantasmagoric play on a number of orb weaver webs in the yard, all with their bright yellow inhabitants