Travelling Standing Still/To a Magnificent Spinner Murdered
TO A MAGNIFICENT SPINNERMURDERED
Gnats and an ant have gnawed your nimble bones—You who could spring and sprawl on your own threadDown half the meadow. Under tiny stonesThe ant has stored your essence. You are dead.
You stitched the air with level darts; the sunSlid on your silvers. Now they slant obliqueLike strokes of rain. . .
Like strokes of rain. . .Your neighbors have begunTo chew the cud of festoons. From the cheekOf this, your hairy enemy, dangles oneLoop of his glee to tease your skeleton.
Wasps sting the grapes still, carry spider-spoilIn twisted torment past your web and onWhere their crude honey hangs in muddy cones.The ants are hurried. One huge bee intones.The pond is wrinkled with a velvet oilWhere gnats will hatch, at dusk, another spawn.