And true enough, sometimes I imagine spiders with a longing 	unbecoming 
                                                                                                               of an arachnophobe:

Wrest eight knuckled legs 
   from nothing
weave ten fingers over my eyes
   stealing looks amidst
primal shudders. What a dirty thrill. What a thing
   to write home about 
this existing
   in a calamitous light.

It is as if, you say, you want to die. 

This, after I get out of bed on the same side every morning. This, 
after I say my prayers in order. 
This after one, two, three, skip, one, two, three— 
after being just right.
 
Scenes:	a bridge flutters like a flag on a pole 
                                                                                       raising waters hard, violent.
The cat is a pink splatter underfoot    on the walls   
                                                                                       the brain. 
I throw myself over the terrace and yell stop!
Trail a desirous          finger                    blow its dust 
                                                                                            over the parapet wall. 
It is said one way to avoid feeling
                  tickled                           during sex is to 
                                                                                      guide 
their hand 
                                                                           with your 
                                                                               own.

I force myself awake when I dream of spiders I didn’t make.