Monday, May 02, 2011

The spider clings to the wet cloth,
which hangs on a plastic hook
stuck to the tiles with closed air.

Only twelve minutes awake
I balance on feet still asleep
feeling the shake of water.

My eyes close in a way of
remembering. My shoulders
are wet and ache.

They open and land on the spider
dancing up and down the cloth.
I'm not sure what kind it is.

Every brown spider is a recluse.
Every black spider is a widow.
I think it should be dipped.

I turn the water off.
I decide not to be a murderer
for one morning.

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