Orb Web

Existence is a wispy thing
that slips my soul’s rough reckoning:
it’s like the spider’s web that I
walk days and duties blindly by,
until one morning, damp with dew,
the vector of the rays just right,
the strangeness of things flares anew
in filaments of prism light;
but mostly in my haze and haste
I don’t pick up the star-lit thread,
but barge right through it, heart and head,
to feel the fragments on my face.