Centipede Attacks a Spider (still loving his Landlady)

Observe his web, crystalline glint off each
taught strand—but translucent not—he fixes
invisibly with fingers (unlike yours, Lady,
which are seen by I, but I, not by you).

“Why this?” Arachnid mutters in my dreams
the night of the night beyond nights which holds
my glimmering flesh-slimed reflection in his eyes,
on each strand, in each, O lady, curlicue of your hair.

Does it trouble you to think my thoughts
are always of you—even as powered by every leg
I pounce upon this web, bearing mine fangs,

a spider’s squirming feet, opened meat, fills your eves
with ceaseless invisible screams stretched to strands,
O lady, you would love—would you?—this within.