A spider has just rappelled down on my desk,
where I was writing a goodbye letter.
He stopped an inch short of touching it
and is hanging there, by his own thread,
I cannot breathe.
I’m watching him wrap the whole room up in sticky wordless webs,
so nimble, like an eight-fingered pianist’s hand,
tapping the table,
waiting for a thought or waiting for
He’s off. He scurried speechless.
They say it’s bad luck to see a spider in the morning.