In that day’s midnight I had to weave a poem around the spider that had fallen on my body and would crawl to a silky promise of my new clothes. I would scrub the crawly thing off and would watch it crawl on floor.

But in my poem I cannot spider-weave a tale about the spider’s instant death under unknowing lunch eating feet. In a poem I cannot dwell too much on a stray spider’s micro tragedy.

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