Life With Horace

poetry & essays

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Parachutes for certain bugs
I can’t bear to kill.
The one too many ones
the wrong kind of spider
the waving scuttlers.
The latest ugly
makes its entrance,
bringing on a rush
to scoop up elbowed legs
and angled hairy parts, 
run the mercy packet to the door,
wanting to fling, instead just letting go,
the tissue wrapped passenger
floating down to land
on a bed of violet leaves.  


The right kind of spiders? Thin bodied long-legged spiders that look like Charlotte. 



In song, music puts
its hands around my heart.
My words think tears
are a puddle to splash
through shoeless.
Color often stops my breath,
and I am held its willing
prisoner. A sudden memory
might need release.
Any of these call up joy
or tears, and I don’t mind.
When the signal comes
they might glide to me
in a waltz, or whirl up
on the skirts
of a wild mazurka.
Better yet, ride in
on the smoothness
of an alto sax.