For the spider the sky begins
at my feet. He senses the
enormity of kicked gravel,
the deep gloom of a closed leaf.
When I walk, poisoning the weeds,
I drag a hurricane through the grass,
send a small earthquake up the
mailbox pole. I am the news
of a monster, swiping at threads
that first surprise my face, eye-
to-eye on the trapeze of dewy light,
the temporary angel, I smite.