Poem: Dear White Wolf Spider

I’ve been meaning to tell you,
I could sense you left my innerspace
last weekend, you burrowed into
the loamy soil, as a sitcom or
herring—the transitions stunk.

There’s been something wild here,
an urgency of bloodshot messes;
could Sundays be, again (perhaps)
against us in a foggy vacuum,
silt & buttresses of limbs,
all the elms coveting us?

You,       yes, everywhere in my life,

all of you                       we are

somewhere                         everywhere.

I’m this Dostoevsky Idiot in the world,
breadly & bold, got to a gunnery
& Norway. 

Don’t go anywhere
you’re not supposed to go.

Wonder what happened in that snap
of time, tiny spider, your scrap metal
child inside?

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