Dream Caught
garden spiders,
yellowy moons in scythe ballets,
they weave amok, windy as swallows.
no fear of my godzilla-sized head,
theater for their puppet show.
their legs wheel into airy letters,
sentences of half-seen languages--
such agile spinners
of plots and spells,
vortices of lines and worlds,
obsessed to populate.
it’s a novel, perhaps, in the end,
about a fractured ghost,
one far too frazzled,
compartmentalized and captured,
who fled the harangue of a city of tombs.
puzzled blue or pink with rage,
the fantastical octets swarm,
some of them orange sweet or peachful in lust,
as if all would be fine,
if only it would look back, the godzilla head,
the ghost, the poet,
and see.
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3/19 "fantastical" replaces "perceptive"
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