. . . must include return postage

don’t bleed; cut carefully.
Excise it from the skeiny ganglia
and wrap it up for parcel post,
the bag,
the flight.
Wrap it well
for, airborn, it will pass through winds
and over seas and lakes and ponds
and deserts and the little boxes full of sand
where children play
unheeding flesh flown overhead,
or molten rivers under foot,
and friend-the-spider in the skull
who weaves and weaves and weaves
and shrouds the buzz of bright mayflies
or Junebugs, for the winter feast.

Wrap up the poem and tie it down;
it wants to go; it wants to flee
while weaver weaves his shroud
while weaver weaves and weaves for me