Angles about him sensed, the first,
the free web presents, and he waits.
No, of course he does not wait, he
simply is: spider, small beyond time,
so small you might not see him
if you were to enter the room,
would only say Ah! and begin
to sweep furiously. And still
you might miss him, ready, if not
waiting, to do his job: place
that which is softer and smaller
than he inside his spider belly.
But you do not come, the door
does not open. The air does not
flow with its one-percent chance
of blowing the soft, the small,
his way. He weakens. What bad luck
to be born! What cursèd bad luck
to boil from that hot-paper sack
with brothers and sisters parachuting
to corners, walls and floor—though
we are only concerned with the one
slowly cooling, here, in this room.
