Standards

Imagine the kingdom of spiders in wartime,
Their lines intersected, their spinnerets billowed.
They festoon their silk routes with prayer flags and standards,
Announcing the presence of this or that faction.

The battered and bartered detritus of corpses
Of allies, combatants, and flies consumed flutter
And tumble on windy blue mornings.

The winners and all the irrelevant armor
And hubbub have already gone off beyond us.
We are the insignia woven through pennants
That tear and recapture the prisoner dust motes.

For instance, the moon represented the Beacon
Encampment. The green leaf in white field announcing
The Wanderers, lost by design, was my notion.