The Spider's Progress

The clouds are sinking Into a salad of treetops.

Our neighborly cat Makes a pass at The spider Sequestered in one Corner of the window-ledge.

The man across the road Has just been Carted to the morgue. His wife Is burning the fish.

★ ★ ★

The third season Of the year Is upon the air, Infecting wardrobes, Wallpaper, and our Morning's lawn.

I must not blunder into This too hastily — Seasons can be Difficult to live with.

The fire is lit; it must Hold up for a spell.

★ ★ ★

I turn away as the blue Spider edges out, and out Even more, Testing each wave of air, Sensitive to Each cabled tremor From his elaborate Network.

My mind scuttles back, back — Some dim-witted fly Escaping the eddy's swirl.

One low branch points In at me — as if To say — I must look Out until it hurts Too much to see.

★ ★ ★

The stone wall crumbles Only at night; the front Gate can no longer Hold itself up; our Postman complains The bees are after him —

These are assessments I Must take in hand. I can only imagine some Order for my house.

Pass it off as seasonal Compensation — Summer Had it in for us, but Winter will Kill the bees and check The spider's progress.

★ ★ ★

The foggy yellow arc-lights Have come on — our Pentathol For finding the right Street, the right door.

The light affixes its beam And catches me, Words dissolving into Chemicals that flicker like Dew upon the webbing In my head.

From here all moves are Tenuous.