clinging to the dusty
twine of a wolf-
                  spider's nape
eight legged children seem like droplets of water on oil.
 
(there are hundreds of us)
 
the wind blows time past our
squinted eyes, quick,
                 like a carnival ride
the littlest one, her hands raw, flayed by rope burn
lets go,
tumbling into the heat of the desert
 
(there are mountains)
 
-fat men selling balloons and
rings with spiders on them-
(far in the distance) inhaling wildly