.

today
a small black spider
dropped the sky into my lap,
then cast a dark blue silhouette
on my white wall, blue on white, until
I spied a little east in its Ukraine and
watched it skitter like a gypsy violin that
drew my indiscernibility into its painting, knew
the perfect shade of indigo to stretch across the
warmth and glare of plaster til I wrote its drop upon
this page, became most like that dangling spider when I
lay its sway upon these words by shifting ground from
white to blue, blue-on-white becoming me, and as it
danced pure form across the wall, my pencil grew
into a bow that played its string, my gypsy
spider violin wailing white on blue




and that is how my Sunday morning flew
into this timeless play of thought




becoming new