He said he saw heaven
when his eyes rolled in his head,
and that it was a spider’s web of light.
So crystalline the silken robes
that shiver like everything
is connected.

The black oil was so thick.
I couldn’t pull him out -
to stare down the sickly sun
that spins you green with
every waking day.

The coffin falls in the icy grave.
To be a pallbearer,
to bury the spider
is to know
the dirt is too honest a teacher
as it thumps and
it cracks,
and men listen,
half dazed,
half dead,
and shovel.

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