Now that hourglass says,
"Just let it go by--
the words in the air,
the spider, the fly."
But I'm locked in this room,
where the web catches dust,
and my mind's
on these things,
we've not yet discussed.

Beware of the riddles
that fiddlers tell:
The clever ones whisper,
the clumsy ones yell.
And if you listen for clues,
in the bars of my song,
you'll hear the fly hum,
'cause it's known all along.

My breach into Eden,
that no one forgave;
it looked like a garden,
was really a grave.
But now that I'm old,
those memories fade,
which softens the guilt,
and this bed that I've made.

Now maybe I'm damned,
but I shall not forget,
those fangs of disorder,
that sting of regret.
So here, on my wrist,
where the blood's
running blue,
I've blistered the skin
with a jailhouse tattoo:

The shape of a woman,
from shoulder to moon,
a long slender neck,
like that of a spoon,
forever silent,
my string violin;
A small black reminder,
the venom within.