Classic Poem

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 damned 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.