With Hands Propped inside Mouth, I'm Temporarily Thinking:
Stupid Spider, Had you Remained in Your Suite,
You Could've Lived to be Squashed some Other Day--
But So Sad, —We've Made our Choice:
Your Black, Cactus Garb, with Eighty Pearly Grapes,
Can't Save you Any Longer—
Your Eighty Scrawny Hands&Legs,
That Don't make a Sound Climbing up the Precipice,
Or Mummifying the Sweeper's Pet,-- Can't save You any Longer.
Ah, Thoughts Seem to Come in Fragments, These Days—
Like a Scentless, Decorous Room, Suddenly
Litting Up, With CrepuscularLight&Taste,
As Your Neighbours Decide for Themselves,
—To Cook, Bed. Here,
Only Visitors are The Delivery Men;
Young Boy Trying to Impress His Girlfriend;
Pigeons bringing home Lookalikes;
You&I, Staring at Each Other,
Like Two Houses—
With Front-Doors, Windows--
