It's black in the room,
Streetlight barely leaking through the blinds.
It's late, I know,
That special still silence of sleep having stolen over the scenary.
I am tired,
But this bed is not as comfortable as it should be,
As it almost always is.
I am awake despite my desires.
There is a spider, I see,
Spinning outside my window sill,
Brown and hairy and huge.
Her woven web is tangled embroidery,
Intricate and indomitable-
But entirely insensible,
And inseperable from the senses.
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