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White Spiders
Gaunt white spiders Clothed in sheets- Dim row against the wall-- We ride their backs, Face leering fears That creep with night. Nurse says, "Good evening!" Smiles, going between iron beds. Bed number eight Complains of pleurisy. Musing, "This one is hard to kill," Her chapped red finger-tips Count off by wrist-watch quarter-minutes- A clinic travesty on nursing men. Nurse says, " Good night!'- Arranging something on his iron stand, And goes. We face leering fears That creep with night. Outside, above, Above the precision of the ward, Booming creak of beds, Crawling torment in throats, Antiseptic and fever sweat- Their height transcending thought, High cool : Silvery spiders crawl. Below, Outside, outside the ward, Chattering crickets. A night-shrouded earth Taunts our spiders, Wakes the trail-lust in feet Gone soft and white from female kiss of sheets- Maddening, maddening Quarrel with soul! Bed number eight Watches a golden spider climb the sky. . . . We will drowse through the long day, Knowing that always in the night wait The spiders, The damn white spiders That have us glued to their backs: Spiders that will never, never, never, Leave their webs Unless we cease to wonder Which star swings dayward . . . home.