Dreams

Locked in with a deadly spider, you reached
to turn on the lamp; it was there, monstrous
and black, waiting for your hand.
In response,
I dreamt of a nightclub where people danced
the tarantella. I got up and said,
"I'll show you how it's really done!' And did.
About to tell you this, I glanced out
at a spider edging upsidedown along an unseen
line — clown and tightrope-walker in one.
The wind moved needles of light
between two trees, linked them to form
a tensile silver arc: an image to be set
against despair's web within web; and beside
the stamping, the spinning, the dancing
the poison through.