Dampening your window sill
dragging in a large spider
by its thorn-dewy shins,
you yowl heatedly.

The sheltering accomplice weaves a breakfast trap
from one end of your kitchen to the other.

The morning news comes through
a timepiece on your wrist;
a caterpillar has used your blanket
in the night
and is hanging with it in your closet,
changing.
"Time keeps on slipping into the future,"
said the wound-up news.

Your teeth are brushed

and neatly parted.
"Let my spirit carry me,"
prayed the spider when you cut its web down
with a pair of pruning shears.

And then it ate you:
it sucked your blood through column wounds in your back,
siphoning the digested burger of your heart.

The sucking couldn't stop, and the spider scarcely thought.

"Time keeps on slipping into the future,"
said the wounded timepiece on your wrist.

By lunch the caterpillar had welded to a false sun
wearing your best disco vinyls
and a tie
and a Christmas hat with antlers and hanging bells.

Your electric potential might have reminded angels
to wake you in the morning,

so a fresh moth's perfume has woken you from life this morning,
before lunch buffets, before the grand coin-op waffle iron rings,

by taking your bedclothes in the middle of the night,
and the two of you
follow Rapunzel's lover through the front door
and into the forest.