The Whole Year of the Spider
Kate Schreyer

Someone’s balmy hands were over my ears.

I stood in a room, waiting for, a way off,


the strings to fall. The maples dulled

and still branching from that dull house,


that receded in to frame. Even,

the road, night leaves backing the light


of each diminished face. That is one thing

and then another. Water birds broke into


the wheel of the attic, and turned and stole

for months. There was the sudden drop.


Delay. I took back everything I said

(strips of clouds, throw me from the window)


in order to say it again. Brown

and mottled leaves, I tried to unarrange,


into the familiar, wherever it landed,

and tossed them down, a tree skirt, a full skirt.