I was the boy who dined on cobwebs:
Before I was old enough to speak
of what I saw, I could only scream
at the spider-monkeys gathered
in the doorway, spinning threads
of darkness and grinning in the maw
of dreams. When I had a fever,
I would feel my hands grow large;
racing, racing round in circles,
endlessly chasing each other
round, while the smell of something
chemical would grow and linger,
filling up my sinuses with the hiss
of dreams dissolving. My sky aswim
with swirling filaments, gazing up
at clouds, I would sense the orbiting
of earth, like a waltzer ride
pressing me down onto the grass,
stopping me from falling to the stars.
