Dawn Ii

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.