While waiting for the coffee to quit its dripping,
I lean stupefied against the door frame,
my body purblind to the sunrise.
During the night (perhaps hoping for the big catch),
a spider has strung its web between the bushes
which enclose my walking path, a tight rope
extending out over the chasm of non-being
to the practical immortality of spring.

But now his gossamer supports are gone,
ripped away in the early breezes. One glinting line
upholds everything. When this coffee’s made, spider,
I will walk down your path to work,
eyes closed to the burning firmament.