Each morning it is there. A cocoon

of memory visible and invisible

waiting for me to stumble into it.


I feel its viscid grip. Its symmetry

of silken threads spun into a tensile

trapeze that bends in the breeze.


Day and night a cobweb of neurons

always firing whether awake or asleep

trapped in strings of sticky remorse.


Mesmeric arachnid dream architecture,

a dew encrusted bracelet left among

bracken, a trickster’s gift, fake diamonds.


Filaments, strung from the wing mirror

of my car, cannot easily be brushed aside,

they stick to my fingers and accuse me


of wanton destruction. Every time you

draw your subtle snare in the air you

remind me: beauty can also be lethal.