Stutter

A poem about confusion and waste.

So this is how the hour dies
dipped low upon the window pane
wilting its leaves into silk threads
through my hands, I weave
and wring the frostbite summer through a bloodstained fist
(crab-red carapace caking my limbs
I dug a hole in my mother for the winter
and was happy)
viscous I melt with the blooming
hammering the first bud of my
arachnid brain from which gnaws out
the cries of children at their sport
the rotting moth fluttering its retort.