Flashing in the grass； the mouth of a spider clung

    to the dark of it： the legs of the spider

    held the tucked wings close，

    held the abdomen still in the midst of calling

    with thrusts of phosphorescent light——

    When I am tired of being human， I try to remember

    the two stuck together like burrs. I try to place them

    central in my mind where everything else must

    surround them， must see the burr and the barb of them.

    There is courtship， and there is hunger. I suppose

    there are grips from which even angels cannot fly.

    Even imagined ones. Luciferin， luciferase.

    When I am tired of only touching，

    I have my mouth to try to tell you

    what， in your arms， is not erased.