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M i l l a   v a n   d e r   H a v e

B l a c k   s p i d e r   m o a n


They just die right

upon the wall, as if

overtaken by stillness


or leave their skin

by my door, a gossamer

sign of how to hold on.


I know they are everywhere

these black spirits of wood 

and stone, manifestations


of what is not kin. It's them

that bind the stars together

and them that know the


fine lore of waiting

until thunder sleeps.

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