Hopefully, you are spiders,
scaling streams of silk along the beams of this poem.
If this were the airiest house,
a poem without borders,
a building without roof
but with a wall high like teak trees hard and tall in East India,
walls fourteen thousand feet high or more,
you could climb them.
The younger spiders can
and what is younger but ambition.
The old are drunk enough with tiredness
to know it doesn’t matter
this rushing and doing,
That death takes care of it all
in its precise mothering
by pushing us out of this life
to float on currents thousands of miles to the next.