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the heart keeping me alive 

When spiders build webs it is from the center out. 

for their single bodies. Releasing their webs to the wind and hoping 

it will be caught on the other end. 

Then they cross with the whole world 

underfoot and dizzying. 

Spiders have very few confidants, but they trust 

the trees that hold them with a fervor that can only be seen as religious. 

They pray every time they follow their sole purpose, 

and then they still die. 

Spiders do not have a heaven, and they also do not have museums, 

and that is why spiders are never victims of hesitation. 

My grandfather said, 

A spider is a chained beast; something feathered and Greek. 

He would spend his work breaks hungry and watching them 

in a local park in his new country, a dollar bill for paper and his imagination for a pen. Admiration is the line that keeps us foreign– desire is the wind chaff that fools the arachnid. 

When my grandfather finally could afford to become a painter, 

his canvas was many chambered, held pockets that took decades of staring to see, and when left to bloom in the light of truth, they grew copper smelling with gold glittering inner-workings; became timepieces of ice that performed their own smoke-heavy smelting. 

When we die, we become violet clouds over the sea, 

expelled from a New York crematorium, 

and the spiders continue to work in the shade our new forms make 

while they weave themselves homes seen in that day’s break.

When spiders build webs it is from the center out. 

They are fishermen in their wordless devotion, traversing gaps far too large 

for their single bodies. Releasing their webs to the wind and hoping 

it will be caught on the other end. 

Then they cross with the whole world 

underfoot and dizzying. 

Spiders have very few confidants, but they trust 

the trees that hold them with a fervor that can only be seen as religious. 

They pray every time they follow their sole purpose, 

and then they still die. 

Spiders do not have a heaven, and they also do not have museums, 

and that is why spiders are never victims of hesitation. 

My grandfather said, 

A spider is a chained beast; something feathered and Greek. 

He would spend his work breaks hungry and watching them 

in a local park in his new country, a dollar bill for paper and his imagination for a pen. Admiration is the line that keeps us foreign– desire is the wind chaff that fools the arachnid. 

When my grandfather finally could afford to become a painter, 

his canvas was many chambered, held pockets that took decades of staring to see, and when left to bloom in the light of truth, they grew copper smelling with gold glittering inner-workings; became timepieces of ice that performed their own smoke-heavy smelting. 

When we die, we become violet clouds over the sea, 

expelled from a New York crematorium, 

and the spiders continue to work in the shade our new forms make 

while they weave themselves homes seen in that day’s break.