their webs intersect
and they weave,
feverishly always,
and they’re trapped
and they stick
and they fight
for the nectar
of their victims
stomping and tiptoeing
on strands
and they fan out
in all directions
and they must not move
but tread so lightly
to stop the vibrations
but they’re already caught
and they look out
for signs,
sensing fear in the air
and sometimes
they bounce
because they’re going


c. 2001, 2008 Evan Gilling


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