To a spider, i’m on his ceiling. I spin a web of belongings about his domain.
I walk around above his head, traversing space and jumping from one spot to the next…
my web is the connection i build with the environment.
His backyard is the niggling touch at the back of my ear, begging me to reach out and quell the itch of uneasiness perched on my shoulder.
His skin crawls at the sight of me, but he’s hesitant to try and shoo me away.
We respect and bug each other to the Nth degree. I don’t kill, he gets the offerings i leave.
To the room, we’re clutter. The annoyance of dustmites on a painting…
the dry sludge built up on the lens of a camera, pointing East.
The breeze behind the explosion of color sent from below time and through the middle of be.
Time ravels unbackwards, raggling through each thendril of taste and empathy.
Each breadth of naughted tenderleaf. Meek set of wrought and bleat, sought relief and won.
Bun dull, run null, Sun bell.
To space, i am a knot in a tree. The spot on a flea, that begs to be scratched.
The path of yeast desistance.