A journal of narrative writing.
Untitled (2)

The spider on this curb
brooding –rain soaked cars
from both directions –it stares

at the giant whose roadway
is already hung in place and my tire
flat, stopped struggling

–at the huge tow truck forever on call
blinking toward its prey
will drag it off for later

and the spider reaches for my hand
as if this street had snapped
and in the dark corners
I can lower myself, my fingers

arch, each raindrop
heavier than stepping stones
–I drop the phone, the delicate wire

already waving goodbye :a trembling current
peeling my hand into thread
wrapping the tire as if each horizon
could strap my heart in place
for later, for the Earth and splashing.