Where I backed the silver trailer
In the autumn rain, pressing close
To oak boards once painted black,
The wooly longhorn turns his head
To enter the vacant space,
Stepping into cool darkness.
Nearby, buttressed with stilt grass,
Panicles of pink knotweed,
The tomb of the ground spider,
Diurnal shroud decorated with fallen
Sugarnut leaves, funneling light.
The rain taps the pale gauze, and,
Deep within the coiled cold
The hungry mouth moves, twitching—
If it had a slavering tongue, surely
It would lick its dripping, ebony fangs.
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