origami spiders

...and each cold courtesan reminds me of
a name, a word, a thought forgot in time
to heal the wounds, seal the tombs and make love
like origami spiders; clever, sublime,
but not really the real thing to me.
the folds are flat and move only in twist
by hands that guide the glide in mimickry
of life as is understood by those kissed
by lips as dead as bled and fed to play
at a semblance of light and the delight
of trace life in discarded webs that stay
long after the weaver has made the night
a metaphor for love given as naught
but practiced folds of paper, made and bought.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.