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Description
this corner of the pool is choked with spiders,
dampness
leaving whiplash grime on the back; jellied eggs
hatching between vertebrae; the man with the light say
"if you don't move, i'll singe your follicle by follicle"

and so we do. the maniac with a lighter
and a dislocated jaw, glass-eyeball'd, drags me
from the bottom of the well, head bumping
against the moss-black brick. tomorrow

we'll receive our first ranks at the commencement
of migration training,
things we will fast-forward through. black-yellow,
"instant coffee". morning

someone will surge up, a ring of axolotl cherubs
carried to the surface from the spider pool corner,

god that was a ride they'll say,
spitting out rotwater.
god that was a ride but one day
it'll be over.