The dream clutch
hatched skeins of
descent from our
bedroom light-shade swollen
like a termite nest, and
I gathered their threads,
wielding a broom
handle, artful
as a wand or
baton, without
to consider consequences,
much less meaning…
Flashback to earlier last
week, in waking state –
     so, real –
the redback I smeared on
our garden path with a rake
by contrast,
loaded with implication, if
defenceless, lying in wait
beneath a bag of manure
ready to scuttle
in my subconscious,
escaping the binds
of death and
time, now
fixed here in

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