Over your body the clouds go
High, high and icily
And a little flat, as if they
Having no reflections;
With no strings attached.
All cool, all blue. Unlike you ——
You, there on your back,
Eyes to the sky.
The spider—men have caught you,
Winding and twining their petty fetters,
Their bribes ——
So many silks.
How they hate you.
They converse in the valley of your fingers, they are inchworms.
They would have you sleep in their cabinets,
This tow and that toe, a relic.
Step off seven leagues, like those distances
That revolve in Crivelli, untouchable.
Let this eye be an eagle,
The shadow of his lip, an abyss.