A Web waits in its black nest.
A thousand and one fledglings
cry for attention
open throat's as red as blood.
I consider not writing anything,
the last line I wrote
wants to be the next one.
I am ignoring, prevaricating,
adding cut and paste time capsules
to a white field.
I distract the uncurling cat of creation,
slow down the pace of a tidal pulse
with breast-plated breaths.
Voices remain un-excavated,
but only for a moment,
then the banshee wail
of the newborn rattle my eye-glass windows
and it begins again.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2022
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