The spiderweb, symmetrical
death;

           is still
a sail stretched from leaf to leaf,
sifting sunrise (let’s wax
poetic), a thatched roof
straining stars some August night (there’s
no better), a wintry
pattern (anaesthetic) on the glass;

                                             suddenly:
the splayed hand that slapped your face;
the wheel they broke you on; the rifle
target bearing your hunched shape;
ripples on the water where you drowned;
your solar plexus radiating
pain; the sight on a fighter plane
nosediving the road where you shield
your head with other refugees; a windowpane
meshed with cracks where your eyes had been;

the spiderweb, concentric rings; pain
grows this way; centrifugal rays;
a dead star decays this way; symmetrical death;
harmonious disgrace;
tidy degradation;

you only feel it brush your face.