Sleeper, Awake

Look --

a web strung from the lamp, moths

entombed in silk, suspended

in air, and nestled against the shade

a spider, eyes glittering

like distant stars --

The Gates

are burning. The City’s on fire.

The Body collapses in ash. Neither song,

nor poem, nor any honeycomb of joy,

O Sleeper, shall be your coin

of passage.