In the ruins of the earth
twelve hundred saints are
biding their time—taking alms
from the smoke of gray dawns.
The tarantula eats the eggs of autumn,
handles them in its mandibles delicately.
The mountain grows with dusk.
Near the edge of town an old half-blind
man burns his trash, brings forth
licking green flames and a cinder stench.
The children are ready to wander,
the parents are ready to weed,
the lonely men are simply ready,
and the spectacular spider picks
the sweet stench of a rotting candy apple.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 18, Issue 4.
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