In the Crook of a Drain Pipe

Some of them scatter, on bodies and legs
as yellow as lemon zest, to float like tear
drops, delicate
as canton crepe.

Some refuse to budge, remaining entwined
a moment longer, an awareness that
the world can wait; they hold each other
as brother and sister.

My finger reaches gently for gossamer
The ridges and valleys of my print catch
briefly on the hooks of their string, a single
pluck wakens the web

Unfolding and flowing, they follow their
brethren’s suit spilling off the web like a
pulse of blood