subtle objects

at that altitude where small objects, subtle objects
rejoin language— 
in the bathroom spiders to save
(door’s hinge opens on them; they stagger
on swept floor then, sliding with pin-prick paws on
black, mincing slippers, cannot stand)

I practised walking along sloping, stony path
to a bridge with corner in it, towards a house
once offering honey to passers-by
—I did not time the water, the sleep, the notebook
today and each time (when these things fall from laundered
expectation) I undo a certain grip,

tentacular hold, like an elastic leg of the brain,
I rest it, see its white, gelatinous tip and heavy-duty
muscle unclench, withdraw silently, like a dancer
turning away—             mind wants something to hold
but it can learn
                                    non-holding. No tears yet

just that altitude up on the Grünten where
beloved antenna blinks phrases over low green
valley: what objects then? (How does antenna
recognise its cognitive dissonance?)      —I can take 
four needles (bound, counted) around three corners,
(which are arbitrary)                we decide what will have been there.

To become new (and newly prompted) there are still
drifts of knotted feelings, some so immemorial
small, subtle objects 
which aren’t really objects. Through fingertips
we drew prickling in, then held its flare 
in nests of hands                  we’re

dented thimble             coloured stone
and law of petals and viscous air
                      that hugs implausibly
           this engineered wing 
a spider (listing barely) and
                 hail’s thought before it forms.