There he goes
the callus'd spider;
legs testing for shrubs in front,
he has a Life
but not the kind that I want,
not the sort I would ever dally with.
He has breath
but I am looking for something different,
and not tentatively searching like his disjointed limbs
but eager as a kitten to string.
Spanking moons born of ventricle suns
we were not alive until the cry,
and those cries of planets
haunt us still,
cleave us to famished bone.
All webbed patrons stitched to breath
we all share visions of Love
and oceans,
we are all tarantulas of the seasons.
Spraying mortal whiskers like eight legged arteries
at a miserable, digital crowd;
the black legged nunnery
a piston to chalk teacups...
@Steven Francis poems 2010
Slip the noose of dying and madness for a time and share some observations with Welsh poet Steven Francis in this, his 5th collection of poetry.
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