There's no news of this spider
But it's poison rings this dinner bell.
Inside the crater of a dimple
Where the temple inside your collarbone
Holds fresh and newish gods.

While the supper tongues are out
It's best to eat the living before the dead are all died out.
This isn't a vampire factory w/ere running after all,
It's the hot new comas of afternoon laboratory parties,
synchronized swimming in a bedroom on top of the covers
but under the softest comforter. She swims sweet laps to the strokes
Of every keystroke and every vowel undone, and every finger unglued.