death wants more death, and its webs are full:
I remember my father's garage, how child-likeI would brush the corpses of fliesfrom the windows they thought were escape-their sticky, ugly, vibrant bodiesshouting like dumb crazy dogs against the glassonly to spin and flitin that second larger than hell or heavenonto the edge of the ledge,and then the spider from his dank holenervous and exposedthe puff of body swellinghanging therenot really quite knowing,and then knowing-something sending it down its string,the wet web,toward the weak shield of buzzing,the pulsing;a last desperate moving hair-legthere against the glassthere alive in the sun,spun in white;and almost like love:the closing over,the first hushed spider-sucking:filling its sack upon this thing that lived;crouching there upon its backdrawing its certain bloodas the world goes by outsideand my temples screamand I hurl the broom against them:the spider dull with spider-angerstill thinking of its preyand waving an amazed broken leg;the fly very still,a dirty speck stranded to straw;
I shake the killer looseand he walks lame and peevedtowards some dark cornerbut I intercept his dawdlinghis crawling like some broken hero,and the straws smash his legsnow wavingabove his headand lookinglooking for the enemy and somewhat valiant,dying without apparent painsimply crawling backwardpiece by pieceleaving nothing thereuntil at last the red gut sacksplashesits secrets,and I run child-likewith God's anger a step behind,back to simple sunlight,wonderingas the world goes bywith curled smileif anyone elsesaw or sensed my crime
