Trapped dust on a spider's web:
far northern corner of a woodshed,
I am aware of myself aware:
behind myself I see me stare
at caught dust on a spider's web.
I craft the word intuitively,
mimic madly what I see as me:
bold gift of a balding friar,
I am a universal liar
pretending dust on a spider's web.
Inside a world looking out
I know I know but know to doubt:
self-consciously I touch your face
and smile - such pursuit of grace
as patterns dust on a spider's web.
bkb
used with permission
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