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I Am Not A Spider

December 29, 2018

A spider trails a sharp glint of light,      

her black beat of a mind      

building a spiral of white water,      

summer days, webs of gray.      

 

She moves, undeterred, through      

ghosts of trees, hollowed days,      

mournful strands holding dark      

bodies at dawn,      

wet light mirrored with flies.

 

With eyes a tunnel of triangles,  

prism of visions,

each leg taps different rhythms of rain:

soft, storms, thunder.

 

I am not a spider:

strands stick to my skin,

building my own cocoon.

I have only these eyes.

 

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