you, spider with convulsive compulsions, you
cannot teach the rain to sing,  the moon to fly,
or the walls to listen.

when the moon breaks wings from its back,
and the rain hums twelve-bars, and the
walls murmur condolences,
we are fire-ridden;
we are wonderous;
we might be androids.

it's been two months and we
are left cutting away dead
limbs and cancerous fringes
like we're trees and scalpels,
inhuman and mournfully undying.

salt falls into the dirt, choking daisies
and breaking daffodil necks. what can you
do but wish to the stars and breathe
for breathing's sake?

dead flowers and arachnids, those were
what your eyes looked like. beautiful,
but not; safe, but poisonous; settled,
but travelling like gypsies; alive,
but so very dead.

i am terribly terrible, i am terribly
dilated, i am terribly apologetic, but
we are just beasts plagued by wanderlust
and frantic memory.