Even Spiders Die

Getting a grip . . . .

But even halfcut spiders some
damn how bleed their papyrus way towards
the light to die, they later told me,
from behind an aching searchlamp
(onehundred watts, a blade
brilliant tearmuse for
my rapidwrinking visions)
during that eonslong debriefing
in our lonely hilltop geodesic keep
  So how'd you fell, they said,
so far into shade, Sonnyboy

But I don't dare hear them
her hot tongues in my ear
her smoky breath is mine

Whose hand is this, they
spat, Whose dotted tees, Whose
crossing ayes -- these cramped
and spiraled hieroglyphics
denote a sanguine head

And I sat back in my
silence, smiled, and take
my timetable from the
membranous air