Black spiders, bulbous and overfed,

Their magic lantern show plays on the bedroom wall

From the streetlights in the hour of the abysmal.

Gnats, mosquitoes, and lake-flies drawn

From Lake Winnebago’s dark water

into spun trappings,

And venomous glands and fangs.

Webs cover the city in mandalas by morning

alongside the seagull’s scream

and broken bottle sidewalks.

An old woman in her red stocking cap

Is sleeping on the bus stop bench

Across from where I once lived .

She accepts offerings of bottled water and sandwiches

But will not be moved,

Her life in white plastic bags.

Fireworks tear the neighborhood

Into a pantomime war zone long after midnight.

Antique airships descend  like residual haunting.

I am stalled out,

Tired of stagnant visions.

Spiders are everywhere this summer, casting thread,

Creating something those connected to the soil

Might interpret as moving forward,

Refer to the spiders as “grandmother.”

But tonight I’m doing penance for precious sins,

And holding out for hard redemption.

The clock on the steeple of St. Jude’s church

Like the moon submerged in a glass of amber liquor.

The night holds its breath,

Spiders weave their abbreviated lives

Towards windowsill husks

Until tree leaves rust and frost returns.