The spider rises, floating on a slip of light. Into the hum above, the sea of fluorescence a-shimmer, the whole of heaven the rules of fluidics on fire. The expanse is not greatest between sight and thing, but hinged upon that distance between seeing and being. Not the realization of the possibility, but the awareness of the odds. It rises into the visible stripe of shapely light, an action in silhouette, a star of unburned sticks. Destiny the scissor-work of the numbers adding up.
How to unlearn then the rigorous tread of history? How to know the dream with the hapless wet-work of all that is? All the stars visible through the ceiling, all the shadows that mouth and maul. Just stretch until the record turns over, reach above those crackling dispatches buried in the spine. Only frayed rope and a flayed grip, flesh torn from holding on so long. The last thread grasped the only strand that matters. The shiny line of silk all the world as witnessed.
There you are, aglow in these dim glimmers. There you are, the only light I find. You hold the horizon line, you dispatch the blind night, hold tight the razor of the ravaged tide. In the pagan stillness your name just brushes my lips, dusts the tip of my tongue. An invocation pressed from the tread of prayer, a grace carved from the timbers of the earth. Even now I clear my throat, I whisper. Your name the only word that is certain.