Waiting for the Spider to Return

Planet earth is a garden forest skyline.
I stick my face in its bosom often.
It is a sea of foaming white caps, and a
buzzing hive of fuzzy bodied bees;
a pile of empty paint cans and
half buried abandoned car tires.
It is the tipping sleeping tea tree,
filled with the susurrus of singing birds.

Below the silver mist
is a percussion of clicking heals
and pavement-scuffers.
Etching paths on a celestial-sized magnetic sphere
to which the metal of all mankind sticks.
The earth is the sweet creamy filling
between chocolate wafers.

The mantle surface is teaming
with a tangle of connective nerve fibers
that defibrillates the heart.
Everything is conjoined through the senses,
so that life seems to be just a country road
between dusty towns.

Electric hissing dendrites
attach the hollows of my chest
to every single vibrating thing –
I am nothing but a gossamer thread
scintillating in sunlight.
The earth ensnared in me,
we are waiting for the spider to return.