O Arachne with Ariadne’s Thread, For Whom Did You Dim Yourself In Such Wild Nyxian Abandon?

 

O Arachne, the sun
On curving strings,
Its orbits cast out wide —

 

How well you play your harp!

 

So on that breast you bared,
Beads — your strung-on spheres —
Rise through surface sunsets

 

In harmonies of loosed sound

 

Which you plumb with a plucking heart.

 

And on those apogees you drive
Even pious, serene bells
Toward madness,

 

So that they cannot help but nod and sway,

 

And plunge into your lap
As you lightly thread the diadem
Of your fluent golden sweat.