Part I: The Orchard Spider Every second a second of silk— (I pour myself from myself I AM the hand on the handle &
A bat drags its broken wing along the pavement flutter-kick flutter-kick and I can do nothing. Its fur is a glossier brown than I’d
Tickling my calves as I step along the side of the road, purple-tinged panicle with a point like a witch’s broom, not quite ready