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Isabel Sobral Campos
[a spidery thing]

Pull the sheets over your head,

the taffeta of dream cloaks you.


Tiny legs delicate fangs erode you.


To the same hours you stare

like a clock into its beginning.


If you want, turn on the light.


At the same time,

talk to me through

veils. Thorax swells

with hard glee


to remember a buttoned tree.

Hard to sew on new trousers.


The escaped world

has saved us front

seats for an epoch.