cedar, rose, vine

These particular spiders were arm and arm locked,  

and arms and legs, too.

Their shadows thrown pornographic tangled against the wall.

I watched voyeuristic and looked for you, poem,

on dark streets, in shadows overcornered,

cobwebbed from live oak to agapanthus.

Silent deer past the garden gates,

muses bareknuckle boxing in the schoolyard.

Teeth and arms and fists; fennel, moon and stars.

Wild swings, wide doe-eyes, blackberry bramble pulls of hair.

A punch, a bite, mark parallel lives

Of nighttime arms and arms and arms and legs.

It is spider season here, on cedar, rose, vine.

A poem by me, just now.