Poem: Dream Caught

 

 

Dream Caught

 

garden spiders,

yellowy moons in scythe ballets,

weave amok, windy as swallows.

 

no fear of my godzilla-sized 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.

 

it’s a novel, perhaps, in the end,

about a fractured, frazzled ghost,

 

a soul compartmentalized and captured,

who fled the harangue of a city of tombs. 

 

the fantastical octet swarms,

some of them orange or peachful sweet with lust,

or puzzled blue or pink with rage,

 

know all would be fine,

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

would look back at them  

and see.

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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