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 abdomen^{1 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 barb^{2 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 touching^3，

I have my mouth to try to tell you

what， in your arms， is not erased^4.