Gallery

in the public square
you are not to be questioned
just admired 
      for your dark demonstrations
of being

the hanging black spider waves its life at you
perhaps the arachnid lover is demoralized
by your hidden beauty
                                     hard to tell 
you cringe under its radiant otherness

in the public museum
        take the tour backwards
let the man with the megaphone mouth
spin his webs not from the center out
                 but outer to inner
inwardness opens windows in closed walls
be kind to the blank eyed watchers

here is a beautiful oil on canvas
there is a spider in the corner
that no one notices
                  for it has no frame
its eight legs tremble

The man in the bus-driver cap
extols her still not living attractions
the ugliness of the moment
is memorized by the whole gallery
only the Picasso remains free 
of the taint of paint

A fat woman sighs into my face
threads exude
multiple silky spinnerets
droop from sticky glands

I want out
the way I came in
but am now too endangered
to weave my way out of this
       carry out picture palace

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