Cobwebs On a Window Sill

Eight shaky legs tap across a dusty pane,
shuffling along thin lines like a eunuch
slowly inching across a white
rope while mustachioed grimaces
and mascara eyes burn red.
Sometimes, I wish
that everyone forgot
everything I’ve ever
said or done. Then
I remember that
they probably already
have, and I bury myself
under as many blankets
as I can find and curl up
like a dead spider.
I long to be hanging,
as if by
a thread of your skirt.
Oh! How you set
my heart aflame!—it quietly
crackles in your fireplace
while you curl up with
a book (maybe the Subterraneans)
on that cushy chair and footrest
that was our bed
on the one night when
we never slept closer.
Let’s make love right here,
On this tangent.