One more time, the chestnut leaves with dead dry throats
fall with a silent crash as the spider spins millions dead.
And no one hears the song of dust when the dot com calls;
Writhing suicide girls and burning boys.
One more time, he presses his thumb
against the slick thick back of the luminous beatle
and it's legs spread out like grasping fingers on the glass,
and his hands pull his hair down in a frown because life
is that fragile, but the beatle smiles because the meek
shall inherit the earth.