a stray spider leg twitches still
atangle amongst his whiskers
men and their beards
things crumbs snot stuck
flicking his tongue across
his nostrils, it’s sensual
just beyond his intrigue
were it present
recently obvious aged man
swings with heavy intent, brow hot
grip tight, axe loose
adversary
frantic discovery
somewhere a saint buried down deep
just outside his pursuit
were it for real
spider clings to the window screen
screaming from tight condensed lungs
eight iron grips
deaf misery
plea to Arachnia
harkened breeze suddenly strong
just against his smooth belly
it’s her hot breath
her chin, windowpane
abreeze of sweat and soil
glossy lips below pert nose
parted against themselves
she calls aloud
his name, her voice
shifting he looks up, compliant
his axe drops, the cat comes, she laughs
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