Cygnus is a spider
Who lives in my grandpa’s armoire,
He stitches his orb in right hand corner.
It is an ode of silk canopies
Stashed with scalloped edges
in a men’s dress shoe box
Some of grandma’s wool coats
from Chicagoland are stuffed in there too,
Mothballs, the treatless gifts
A few in each pocket neighbors
the rock Wrigley’s Winterfresh Gum
each slice dons a silver coat of its own
Cygnus will often tip toe on silken tight ropes
weaved by the spew of his belly spinnerets,
Skewed and splayed
into each constellation of space and silence.