I came back from the woods
festooned with the threads
and tatters of spider webs.
The moth that hovered
outside my door
this morning, an eye
on each wing, was gone;
later the tabby would tear off
one wing, watch closely
as what remained went fluttering
across the road. Now
two deer have paused
on their way up the hill.
They meet my eyes, but no:
they can see that the world
still sticks to me. I am not
far enough gone.