I went out of the house to smoke. A thousand

Buntings in the brown stalks, scolding

The sudden cold

That’s come down from Canada

That rushes the clouds to illusion, an old moon

Behind them seems to plummet—

The fat yellow spider, out earlier with the thaw,

Lowers herself on silk which

Turns solid in the cold,

Surprising us both.

She tries to climb by eating the string of ice

But can’t and waits—

I put my hand under her,

Scissors over rock, she drops

Into soft hands.

I bring her inside the house

And put her in the stone cupboard

That has no ceiling, that was

A chimney in another century. If

I am ever translated into sky

I will expect my spit to turn to ice

And I will eat it and rise, unlike

The yellow spider, like the brides

And mother of Christ.