Jack Scott writes

Part V

Still planet, 

leisurely revolving 

in no haste or hurry 

distance becomes you, 

pretty earth. 

Pretty, pretty, pretty earth, 

beyond the spinning web 

so small, bugsize, 

it seems caught in it, 

dessert, the proper touch 

to end the feast of feasts 

this sight of hunger’s end 

now that hunger’s nearly past, 

all illusion now of appetite.

A dream instead of hunger, 

vision takes the place of thirst 

a dream of wining, 

dining and never being done. 

A dream within the dream of dreaming 

at the edge of up and down, 

a dream of living on unhungry 

or dying full - 

nothing in between. 

The gift of time 

that would endow 

equal opportunity for all 

to continue falling up 

while everything falls 

down and out 

and nevermore back in. 

All that goes up 

must not come down 

nor should it,

The dream now: 

a larger web to spin, 

the fortitude to do it, 

a web from sun and moon to every star, 

large enough to hold 

all things within it and at once. 

Deeper, deeper, in we go 

(anaerobic self-hypnosis?) 

the mistress of the smaller web 

spins the larger, bucket list, 

her bill of self-appointed rights: 

homestead on the larger web 

followed by retirement, 

a deed to claim the property, 

low interest reconstruction loans, 

alarm to warn of trespass, 

gun to keep bad guys out, 

freezer and refrigerator,

lots of fresh food in them, 

an insect supermarket near at hand, 

good health or (failing that) free pills, 

time to learn to read, and spider books 

bifocals for the finest print, 

company to talk to, electricity, 

music, a psychiatrist, 

time and a half for Saturdays, 

Sundays at double-time, 

spider union to keep things fair 

two weeks’ vacation on a yellow flower, 

walks around the lattice park, 

pension for old age, 

bird insurance and a lawyer 

to protecting patent, contract, share, 

cremation after death, 

recognition in a mirror, 

then time to think, 

reflect, 

and dream.

All winds wear out 

and every spider dies. 

Each dreamer has a final dream. 

All gusted into space again: 

the web with all its benefits, 

the spider and the sun and moon, 

the stars 

by a wind so large 

it doesn’t need to blow 

to move all things away 

from where they were.

When that wind falters, 

fails 

to move things further on 

they come to rest again 

right where they were, 

yet always 

some inexperienced things 

dream a little further on, 

dream within a dream of dreaming, 

vision at the fork of choice, 

choosing falling all the way again 

down 

or further up.