Another Poem On Gamophobia

October, and corners and crannies

are rife with spiders, glue

of gossamer. Since you left

 

this morning, I’ve walked

through a web, caught a spider

dappled in afternoon light

 

before it scurried

beneath the bookshelf,

one more thing moving too fast

 

to grab hold of.

The cool breeze, a shooting star.

What we have

 

and what I’m afraid to say.

I wish I would change

like seasons, like these unleaving

 

trees, even the pumpkins rotting

on porches. To turn

to warmer weather,

 

our breaths fogging

the windows, my hand

finding its way into yours.