Clouds choke the sky like a thread web
spun under the moon by eight-legged stars.

From the other side of space, maybe Orion
is the hunter of galactic pests, the Milky Way

a strip of fly paper rattling against the light
of crucified angels. I try to say this but taste

the psalms of insect wings thrum through my lips,
bite my ears into soundless raw funnels.

Water knows such things, how a scaled god
swims in dust and, with each twist, dreams

into form ridged halos of sea. With closed eyes
we wash our hands and feel air get in the way

of fools like touch and vision. Moths live
in our sleep; they tap xylophone jazz

into our bones, circle in the night, are consumed
by fire. We wake up and remember nothing.