I didn't want to look at the huge white egg the mother spider dragged
along behind her, attached to her abdomen, held off the ground,
bigger than her own head-
and inside it: hundreds of baby spiders feeding off the nest,
and in what seemed like the next minute,
spinning their own webs quickly and crazily,
bumping into each other's and breaking them, then mending
and moving over, and soon they got it right:
each in his or her own circle and running around it.
And then they slept,
each in the center of a glistening thing: a red dot in ether.
Last night the moon was as big as a house at the end of the street,
a white frame house, and rising,
and I thought of a room it was shining in, right then,
a room I might live in and can't imagine yet.
And this morning, I thought of a place on the ocean where no one is,
no boat, no fish jumping,
just sunlight gleaming on the water, humps of water that hardly break.
I have argued bitterly with the man I love, and for two days
we haven't spoken.
We argued about one thing, but it really was another.
I keep finding myself standing by the front windows looking out at the street
and the walk that leads to the front door of this building,
white, unbroken by footprints.
Anything I've ever tried to keep by force I've lost.
From WHAT THE LIVING DO (W.W. Norton, 1998)