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December 12, 2013

A spider made of shadow weaves his webs above me,
clutching to the walls with feet he grew from darkness.
He spins his nets in silence, drawing webs from dreaming,
pulling strands of consciousness with pinching graspers.
Between the sheets and in the nighttime where I’m lying,
sleep is kept a stranger by the spider’s workings.
My thoughts in sticky strands stretch long into the darkness,
clinging to, vibrating with, my captive thinking;
and long into the starlit hours, the spider’s working:
pulling, stretching, pointless weaving thoughts into me.
I cannot last much longer: soon my head will empty—
soon, the spider’s graspers will run out of webbing;
but when I’m stirred awake in golden-dawning morning,
webs will catch me as I rise and weigh me down again.

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