Arachne

Fresh roses crumble with slow rains,
Thorns tearing lacy spun silk, your
Rags fit to be burned,
Drowned in my bloodied envy!

Shall it be you, threading, mingling
These broken hands of time-
Of no use to me, which
I banish from my night?

I made it so, that peace
Comes only in rain;
In undone quicksilver strand
No sorrow runs unspun.

The Long Season

Unblemished night,
the sweet sleeper
Waltzes with the storm,
Blind muse, blind fury blitz
Chased by the morn.

The thunder calls his mistress
Who runs around and around,
A twisting smile still there
As the sky turns in revelry.

She's dizzy, dear, endless silks tear,
Beads shrieking, snapping,
Snaring, scraping glass
Upon the roof, ice threads
With phantom spiders and all.

The maid will come,
The moon, but in a trice
To find herself knee deep,
Ankles wet, gown stained
In all excess to bask.

All this, all this
For the keeper of night,
When sleepers sleep again.