top of page
R o b e r t P e s i c h
A n E v e n i n g C o m m u t e
At home, in my garden, I hear
the giant crushers of the cement factory
begin their nocturnal roar.
A crimson spider, smaller than a dewdrop,
casts her towline from a flaming rose
to my face, almost as good as a leaf.
I watch her cross the chasm.
She wanders in my hair.
Her shimmering line billows
holding me briefly to the blossom.
bottom of page