Friday, September 23, 2016

Jack Scott writes


Part I

Long legged orb, 
lurking hungrily 
upon her net of latticed air, 
welded tight with crystal light, 
at first sight in levitation 
so finely spun’s her web, 
art knit from nothing 
onto nothing, 
so it seems.

taut and faithful 
as the seams she spins and weaves, 
abiding in her hunger, 
she grooms her public loom, 
hidden in plain sight.

Eye music: 
dew-bellied notes upon the threads, 
held in perfect pitch, 
distillate of darkness 
clear now with dawn’s fresh light 
like tears when weeping’s done, 
back inside the air by noon.

which stirs the largest things 
when moved in all its might, 
calm, is stirred itself 
by many tiny moving things: 
an ocean swum by swimmers 
small enough to drown 
in a single drop of rain, 
plowers in this edgeless space 
whose furrows seal too quick 
to sow with anything.

little zippers 
closing up the air they parted, 
healing little tears in space 
on their way to anywhere. 
Birdlife of the lower air, 
a la carte potential 
groceries for a feast 
on spider’s dinner table, 
uncharted in their haste.

Air is ocean 
beyond the spider reef. 
Its currents waft the careless 
to, not through, 
the spider’s sieve. 
She stalks 
and plucks the stuck: 
stranded sailors of the sky, 
dines privately on profit, 
one eye upon the store, 
the other on her overhead. 
She grooms her face 
and gleans the crumbs 
from here and there 
upon the tightropes 
of her lair, spread upon 
the public, ordered air, 
routine of her average day, 
but all days are not the same, 
one size does not fit all.

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