READ TIME 0:43-1:22
I watched the juicy spider
mercilessly murder
the blimp, sweet bumble bee
that flew into its messy weave,
Unsuspecting.
A gardener at heart,
I know that my spiders are beneficial.
I need my spiders.
And I know that what happened between the two of them in the side yard
was perfectly natural. I didn’t intervene.
But then, relatedly or unrelatedly (I admit),
I often dust and worry the spiderwebs away
from the deck and the chairs and the plants.
And only then do I think about what it took
To spit that stick of a mess. How vital it is to them.
I wonder if the spiders will come and smell me
while I am swishing their webs away,
and find, and punish me later in my sheets.
I think about how, and how many times then,
Now my own web has been dusted away
by an immediate, natural hand.
And then, rather than feel sorry for my spiders,
I marvel at how quietly, intrinsically, and constantly, they rebuild,
and I wonder what the fuck is wrong
with me.
Current Sh*t 