By Jack LaVigne

I took you for a spider,
But now I see you are a bee
Against the concrete.

There is no heat found
In that mass,
But blood runs in the center of my palm.

I pry you from your perch.
The world will appear to you as dark as death
But once you sip my heat
I will open my fist.

If you decide to fly,
Know that autumn wind upturns those resting souls
And will quickly spill the heat I gave.

Your days are numbered

As your fur belies:
What was once yellow in my summer garden
Now quakes and pales like snow moon vapor
Peering from afar.