Classic Poem

Whatever my thought has spun—
That spider refuting night—
What silver web in the sun,
What filmy meshes white
With dust, tangle in air.
What traceries are thinned
Leave a lost shape there
To curve with wind.

Caught against space they break…
A sparkle is gone like breath,
A dust settles for sake
Of logical smug death.
What contours, what hot rays,
Dissolve into the mist,
Serve to round my gaze
And heat my wrist.