Saturday, 24 November 2012

238. Crimes of the Spider

The spider lies mere inches from my keyboard,
flat on its back, its disproportionately long legs
curl up to its body and I know it's dead,
slowly starved while inside
or attacked by a small spider
or slipped from the ceiling
and fell too far
for its large body to handle.

I'm more anxious,
trying to scoop up the body
than I was having it cover the room
over my head for a week,
like a guardian
or an omen
or another wild animal
out of its place.

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