Beneath the ground and holding down the lid
And waiting for vibrations on its mesh-
Weave tube to cash in on its patient bid,
A spider the color of human flesh
Is waiting just for you so you will sing
Your siren-song, your sullen song, your black
Swan song before the needle-straws can sting
And lay you, writhing, upon your fleshy back.
But in that final song that charms the birds
And makes them weep for your eternal loss
You'll find at last the music in the words
Whose toadstools trip you--lay now in the moss.
The door is closed--it opens to a room
Where all your songs are wafting from your tomb.