Poem 43 Revised

I Killed A Spider
Coarse groans of chalk on board
Pull ebbing from my pen
Ideals of nobility
Folly-fraught with men
And then…
This, tiniest of monsters:
Acute the root to life
The pitter of his petite feet…
Fascinated I pause
And observe…
Silk-screen a room of minds
On the pin tip of his linger—
Watch an ink-spit for a spell
Conquer the length of my finger
In perfect awe…
His body swaying side by side
I offer my pen as a vessel,
With his decline I resign
To ponder that panorama
But I tire of his trek
Wishing to send him off anew
I slowly—
Flick him with my pen.
Oh Horror!—a blunt curvature
A crushing weight!
He was taken
By the careless curl of my thrust.
Dead he lingers a smear in the margin.
And I return to the lecture.


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