Apparition Poem #1112

 

 


#1112

I.
“Fuck art let’s dance”
only we didn’t dance,
we fucked, and when
we fucked, it was like

dancing, and dancing
was like art, because
the climax was warm,
left us wanting more—

how can I know this
dancer from the dance?
Brain-brightening glance,
how tight the dance

was, and the sense that
pure peace forever was
where it had to end for
both of us, only your

version was me dead,
after I had permanently
died inside you like the
male spider always does—


II.
Pull me towards you—
woven color patterns
create waves beneath
us, tears buoy bodies

to a state beyond “one”
into meshed silk webs—
not every pull is gravitational—
as two spiders float upwards,

I say to you (as we multiply
beyond ourselves) “those
two are a bit much, their
sixteen legs making love”