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You said your life was boring so I have just released your address to every spider I know
You have time still, to escape with your
essentials. I only know one spider.
It will crawl to you slowly,
as a million-dollar snail might.
He has made an apartment where the ceiling
and wall meld like oceans.
His place is lousy with cross-hatched whites,
with a fine sheer finish that glows
in the sunlight. At present, he is resting in a sunbeam
atop your W-2 that was mailed to me
on accident. He moves his wire-thin legs across
your typeset name, as if trying to learn
every serifed edge of you. I have named him Richard,
for his lion heart. The sun is setting, and he races
the shadows up the wall. He will come to you well rested,
eager. I told him how the mosquitoes love you,
and there is a hunger in his eyes. Pack lightly, my dear,
move swiftly—you said your life was boring so,
I have just released your address to every spider I know.
Copyright ©
C.W. Bryan
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