One day a spider set home inside mine.
Small, black. Her loose web on the window sill.
Creatures fatally trapped on her white lines.
Gave me peace of mind and gave her a fill.

















Days later a larger spider appears.
Narrow, with a white dot. It’s motionless.
Dead or Alive? His presence raises fears.
The window sill spider he does obsess.











Observing. For days he is a statue.
Every movement, adjustments to her strands.
Fixated. He stares. I think what to do.
Should I destroy him using unknown hands?





























Perhaps one not interfere with the wild.
Perhaps I bleed into the world of beasts
Perhaps the black spider can win when piled.
Perhaps a hypocrite on flesh I feast.







Does Nietzsche roll his eyes at such a sight?
Questions we ask inside that do kill us.
But he fucked in brothels in darkened light.
And his brain melted down from syphilis.







The next day I come to the window sill.
I search the web, the frame, dread drags on.
Perhaps I failed her and my free will.




A dead man laughs, and both spiders are gone.