Temperate glare and horizontal shoots

blind in the direction of travel

I am striding forward through the tunnel

Billowing in the winds of hope

Without seeing, what is ahead is a flat plane

Drowning me in unctuous light

And I am turning onwards

I am the door that bangs 

As a sharp gust attempts itself

A crushed can, it rambles and then 

throttles and then it is

In erratic ecstasy and tumbling much unlike

The little spider I saw in last night’s moment

Which crouches in my cornice, its stillness 

An erratic inaction, a lunula homunculus 

I see her 

arching embryonically across 

the bow of the tunnel and

as I approach her mantled doorstep 

at the end of the tunnel

I sense, and smile

I will be the welcomed zygote

In the crook of her unmotherly spindle.