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 abdomen¹ 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 barb² 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 touching³，

    I have my mouth to try to tell you

    what， in your arms， is not erased⁴.