Spiders

The morning leaves no time to occupy hands.
The mouth makes a web out of cotton yawns

threads which have undone overnight
coal fibres all loose.

You leave silence glacial
empty

missing wall.

I amass spiders.
lips of frantic legs,

Moving teeth which sputter
out and scuttle among the bed sheets.

The hour fills with black clamour.

My tea takes the buffer of words,
the panic of silence.

I see that in ten minutes
the window will fall away
with the door

and the day will make claim
to sense.

My forwards is arachnid,
steady clatter of talking.

I only need to fill
a few more mornings
to forget you.