Tantric, this cobwebbed plot,
fish-net snare hung high in goblin air:

I'm lost in love, a mazed speck
of stunned flesh, sun-puzzled, heat-eaten,

freshly wept & sung,
& now meshed above the industrious,

onyx-necklaced ant-hills,
trefoiled clover, bee-gemmed buttercups.

Spiders on drugs spin weird
(did I say 'lost'?) distracted lairs.

I don't care what powers catch us
flagrant, in their bed of clews,

ropes, & cords; the thread
by which Theseus crept his way,

now slack, now taut from her labyrinth,
could not show more golden

than these cross-hatched diamonds
burning our scars, our fire, into your barest back.