The great hunter, the great spider,
Her starry egg-sac in her thighs,
Climbs in the south of northern skies.
I see her. I know her. I know
She is more real than I can be
And only a figment of me,
Getting close to the end again,
The miracle of calendars,
The brilliant insight, the cycle.
Ragged, imprecise orreries
Spin brass-wheeled table-top marbles
Representing these lurching spheres.
Damn us that we should have to know
That everything both ends and then,
But differently, begins again.
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