A small hand takes out Spidey from the top bunk

space, he lives up there because he has no brother

and calls it the roof to his bed. It is nice out-

side and the leaves of the old oak out back blow

like the hair part to the one side of a woman’s head, blurred

because the branches move fast in wind and the green shines

in highlights just before noon. when you throw Spidey in the air, he flies briefly

and it is nice to see the point where gravity and lift

meet and he is suspended and frozen in the moment

of compromise and loftiness. As we near the tree

it is large like an imagined villain, there is a growth of fungus

that distorts the bark, bulbous and overwhelming. Falling, the hand 

catches Spidey, the tree looking in, the beginning of fingers taking form

like an evil scrawl.