#25

The black fog of the room is a thick margin darkness.
The inkblot blur-wash of night,
the curtain-hug vacuum elminates any light,
even a string from a distant star.

This is the blankness where the world was created,
empty shade where it was all forged in blood and clay,
invsible to the eye, it's molding shape.

And seemingly from a ceiling, the spider lowers itself
above you, its web the echo of a vortex-breath big bang--
it hangs above you, lifting its body like a marionette.

Its fat body, a swolen oval sphere,
hovers in anticipation. You breathe,
and its skin pulls back to reveal a planet,
the spiders' legs crumbling like so much ash.