Email Poem

Your IP Address: 3.143.223.72
Your Email Address:
To Email Address:
Subject
Personal Note:
Poem Title:
Poem
The formless spider, shaking 
            coins of mourning dew off her back, 
                filtering anemic sunshine through her 
          latticed web, connected to an invisible string, drops suddenly—there she flies! 
                swinging nimbly through hazy blue 
       dawn, cutting the sky into 
 shattered glass, unhinged from 
                          gravity, as if she were wispy cirrus clouds; 
       kissed, burnt, caressed, edged around with pink—under here or there, 
    through blackness, through yawning azure or flickering orange, a rusty 
candor of mythopoeia 
                 (the shaking trees bled browning leaves that fluttered, 
 here and there, slicing lifeless 
        clouds and stirring up stale time.) 
What of the grass? 
          It billows carelessly beneath the rising 
                          sun—and that? 
                      Burning the edges of the dilapidating shack, 
                 under vines, under rotting 
             wisteria      —a man, perhaps? 
          Indeed! 
      Back from the voyage! 
         Awaking from slumber, the doctor sips his tea. 
                  (Her breasts, in the background, are bare, 
                                          barely covered, the veil flapping, 
               here or there, covering and uncovering; she still sleeps on white clouds.) 
Emancipating blackness, releasing 
          it, the palms clammy, 
             now violet, now pink, 
        now blue—and what of the mountains? 
             Severing the                bl  ue! 
             Wrapped in gold fire! 
                             Distilling      light,     dusting off impurities, stirring 
           entropy like a galaxy, stars hidden under a 
        cloth (some are brave, free-wheeling, panting like a dog, 
what of it—madness?)
                    —Dutifully the sun rises over the land like a god, 
    omniscient, 
             ever fleeting, her strokes impressionistic; 
                        Pollocks of hazy atoms illuminated, 
                uncovered, unsheathed, racing through 
                                    oblique chaos, 
                     here or there…the formless spider rises again, 
      through atoms, through the azure clouds, paint-brushed smears of violet, 
              loosening herself from space; the mourning ripples quietly, 
          here and there, and slowly returns to rest. 
The formless spider returns to her web.
CAPTCHA Preview
Type the characters you see in the picture
Required