Each morning it is there. A cocoon
of memory visible and invisible
waiting for me to stumble into it.
I feel its viscid grip. Its symmetry
of silken threads spun into a tensile
trapeze that bends in the breeze.
Day and night a cobweb of neurons
always firing whether awake or asleep
trapped in strings of sticky remorse.
Mesmeric arachnid dream architecture,
a dew encrusted bracelet left among
bracken, a trickster’s gift, fake diamonds.
Filaments, strung from the wing mirror
of my car, cannot easily be brushed aside,
they stick to my fingers and accuse me
of wanton destruction. Every time you
draw your subtle snare in the air you
remind me: beauty can also be lethal.
