Sandra Marchetti

Spiral Orb

Atop the street, lamplights
curl like spider legs.

Cars shuttle web beams
slung through the sky.

Knit my astral eyes
in bleared light,

through mirrors I catch
the northern star in lit-up cars;

I near the northern drapes
and wave, unfurling.

Spindling legs charm us
from the road

toward the swaying spinnerets,
the slow dance light show.

A strip of falls rises against its horizon.
Low in the leaves, my cry latches
to a cloud that ribbons from view.

The tumblers in my eyes click
as you prune stems,
bind them to a pack.

From behind my mother's garage
I hand you a lily,
years past its creation.

Laugh with me here
on the faster side
of forever;

come to the river bright
from the cleaning bugs
and wait on this.

I motion out to you now;
the sun raises the ghosts
of particles in tiny half-life.

Come and keep this song;
in the daylight,
under broke clouds

torn twice through,
we wait riven
to the rocks peeling back,
black in the water.

I find you, my darling,
knelt down and stung
by the softness
by the smoked waters

across from where we are—
on the faster side
of the stream—now fleeting.