Spider, though you are small
and I am big, we're
undisimilar, pal.
From luna wings
and flies red eyes
and rays of white lamp light
you spin the thin web
of your livelihood
from leaf to limb;
while from bread-crusts
and aliquots of wine
and the salt of quiet
I spin prayers
disguised as poems-a
livelihood, sort of, to blow,
subtle as smoke-
rings, over the horizon,
across the straits of soon.
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