there is time for everything

the crackling of an orange, over-intense mass of heat
throwing passion into a collected sky it cannot touch

the heat in my chest,
me grappling with the cold of stone patio at my fingertips,
staring up at stars like dew, caught
in the intricate, secretive mechanisms of a spider’s web,

the star-spider’s web (and I could believe this too,
up there where no one goes and existentialism dies on its feet,
just floating up there,
frozen with a million captured birds, a million points of heat so far away
we think them cold.)

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