They hang around at night inside my window,
dangling like hangmen through a haze
of cobwebs,
their lifeless, living limbs drooping like tassels.
I catch them in the morning:
"We're practising", they say, and show me a
trapeze act of leap, bounce and scuttle.
I feel their heavy bodies yo-yo through the dark.

They bind and sook the brittle, muslin-winged beasties, who
float like dreams through open sashes.
"We never fall", they say, and cling to ceilings,
suspended on those fragile, hairy stalks that
carry them like drops of water.
They say, "We've mastered three dimensions" and show me,
their heavy, white-flecked bodies spinning
cartwheels as they work their macrame.

They watch me with their small,
well-meaning, unresentful
faces as I sweep their work away.
"We'll try again", they say, and
drop
to
the
floor.

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