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.