I am like that joke about the spider, stoned
on cannabis, who spins a holy hammock. Pray,
no, not even thoughts will stick, not even
a teaspoonful of morning do to sip.
I lie and blink, words slip
through these worthless threads that brake
in, too. The wheel spins off its axes,
the spoke is chopped to splintered would
that I could perseverate. Prey, prey, prey.
No God can eat through this holey miss.