Spiders

Any of a million different strands
and I'm the one
whose picture is on the fridge
or cornerd on your desk
arm on shoulder

and here I go again, spirialing into infinity
wishing for a poet's way
with a devil's grin

a bottle, some cans
resen stains and a pair of sunglasses
left on a nightstand

woven, a delicate threading
thing, a beginning that I've already seen end