how spiders make the most of our world

how spiders make the most of our world

as a strawberry red sky
pours into one of the seven hills,
the air is strung
with the ghost wail
of a bus at daybreak.
lit with the white
of dug-up pottery,
the empty seats flicker by
like chattering teeth
as the cavernous body
sinks into the shadows steeped.

within the cracks
of yesterday’s floored rain
legs move silent seen,
as mourning webs
hold the body bright.
from the dragline
a curled cluster suspended
on the wing
like a dawn pearl
watches me
eight times around.

made from a soup
of concrete, glass and steel
the bus-stop cries blank,
as through a night
cold and hollowed,
the moon has primed
the spinnerets.
and this morning
we are all made only from spider webs.
i am awestruck
within the shimmer.