the spider

How would it be like a spider be:

with sleek legs gather mastery over the ground

slowly pulling darkness from the crooked hidings

and hang a hideous rhythm above the gravity void:

a puppeteer kept still

by the tension of its strings.

Derive from four the coordination

controlling the world by its double:

a magnitude spontaneously produced

between segments born to reflect the rests

by numbers. bound to a figurative calculus

without the extremes of aims from mutual aid.

The sight smitten by the frontal limbs

that thrust the thoughts in sliding ambush,

like the slopes that mettle the village in their frown

and harness its doom through voluble clouds;

then the torso, the ear that tunes the preys

to the resonance of its symmetry,

radiating the arches of the octagonal bell

that subdues environments to its tremolo,

the delicate rhapsody of nerves over surfaces

wreathed by the ventral glissando, which silk,

if added, chromatizes in fugues the light to its centre;

there emerges the globular excrescence

that clots the flows of air and blood

in one single-engine: dragged, not pushed,

as if maintenance was an afterthought,

to abide only secondary to kleptomaniac surveys

that restlessly devour the trajectories they plough.

To be a spider and to unfold the mystery

that in the network of theories and hearsay still

draws toward the seat

contended by wonder and fear,

where thoughts dangle in tingling charm

on the interstices that silently compose

the presence whole.