A spinning spider, Sputnik-fathered
and strung up to struggle, streams gas against
Earth's arrogance, its invitation to descend.
A face has been fixed, and focuses below,
yet diurnal as a druid, one drinks from the Sun.
Threaded with thoughts that thistle-scratch
and bounce back: big prizes!
glossier glamour! more glorious to spend yours
chasing what’s cheap, than choose to slow down,
it tumbles, trembling, traces mindlessly
a girdle of the globe. It gleams and disappears,
cloud-eclipsed, and closer than it seems.