Waiting For The Spider Poem by Eric Cockrell

how many small deaths?
nickels and dimes in dust filled pockets...
are we drifting off to sleep?
out to sea?
or further from the core?
we die in circles,
circles within circles.
with small short breaths hurled
on the hairy plate of eternity.
a thousand tiny fires,
built by unseen hands
on darkened roads...
a thousand tiny deaths!
or a thousand stop the world kisses,
when names and identities are forgotten,
if but for an eternal moment.
how many times must i be the butterfly?
the snail? the hummingbird flying backwards?
or just stagnant water in a cast aside tire...
waiting for the spider?