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.




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