There’s this sticky mess of beer on the ground
and I try to think of a time
when I could write a poem…

There are spiders in the corners of my bedroom with long, angular legs. They spin webs and lay eggs. Their babies spin webs in other corners of my room. They are small and translucent; I don’t notice them at first.

Here is a spider
waiting for something to
climb into the white, thick webbing
so it can swell its rounded
abdomen with blood…

There is a weird rhythm in the day. I feel like one thousand strands of string all knotted together. Young woman walks down the street with a child on a leash. Man on the train, bent at the waist, holding a radio in his left hand and hanging onto the train rail with his right. Hunched over, his radio plays a distorted tune.