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A piece of her
sticks behind my eyes,
tucked within
the locket of lids.

I keep her memory until
she returns from her
daily sojurn
of solitude.

Graceful
arachnid,
she spins her silk,
whispy
as dandelion seeds,
between firm
mountain pegs.

Chain smoking
is a sign of depression,
I am reminded,
as smokey fillaments
waft overhead.

The widow weaves
ber ephemeral breath,
I watch it turn dark
in the coldness
of her restless
wafting.

A dark balloon
that never settles.

Most spiders
have eight eyes
the waning mistress,
has billions.

She stares
face full of fluttery eyed
stars and a tapetum
lucidum moon.

Reflects bits
of the mind from her
glossy assiette.

The whole world
watches
as she passes by,
infamous and
untouchable.

Watching,
the cool breath of body
reaches a dark shadow
towards the earth.

I feel the night flush,
growinging warm,
the air
moist with the pearls
of desire.

The tension stretches
taut
and thin,
like a rubber band
shadow.

The soft folds of cloud,
her flesh
rubbing against
itself.

Until
something
explodes between her
and the steady patience
of earth.

The night flickers
like a slow movie reel,
in silvery-white
and dried lavender
bursts of sharp,
pale light,
turns the whole world
into a bizzare
negative image.

The soft,
flowing edges
of my form,
grow lean
and flat as a monotone
note.

The longing
becomes static,
the electric impulse
of flesh above
leaps
to flesh below.

The lady blushes
with the dusky red heat
of lightning.
This will have to be enough,
this flirtation,
these light,
but powerful touches
to sustain
to call forth
the rain.

To wax
her assiette
to satisfaction.