Phidippus mystaceus


If you make Your decision
How am I to argue?
A Mite with no knees.
But I beg a plea
That will go heard or unheard.
The Moon gleams White
And has no record for
Keeping score
But crosses in Her timely fashion
As the Spider whirls its thread
For foster flies to wed.

Stunning Beauty!
To be fixed by a Thread
White Light paling
The blades below
Polishing the gutter above.
Raindrops will soon stretch
To horizontal streaks
As she passes from Moon
To Sea igniting her torch
In descent to Dream.

The Queen, the Queen!
Whose spiral Crown
Sets ticking a Galaxy;
Whose sacrifice directs
The hum of the Hive
In Hexagonal Mystery;
Whose Dust does not tire to praise her Name
In sickness and in health
Burning on a Stake or at sub-degrees.
One hand She takes
One hand She feeds
One hand leaves a dying Thirst unslaked
One hand a Pillar from a mustard seed.

The leaky corpse
Draws like Honey from the Tap.
Tis the season
Tis Her season
Every season
And I’m just a Mite
A Mote
A Bee
In a Web
Or on a bar stool
Buzzing with the Time
A draught of Moonshine at my elbow
A glass of Honey in the Mind.