The fact
It flew from me and lodged somewhere
in the ceiling beam –
my terror, a small eruption, sharp as shrapnel.
embedded in a knot of wood, it’s dark brown
foreboding holding up the roof.
I looked across to where you lay,
ear folded against a pillow,
the disordered fan of your cowlick,
radiant –
I do not want
to die, I whispered.
No one does, you said.
Above us, detaching from the beam,
a cobweb - diaphanous
in morning light,
how softly it fell.