O, the Spider walks the tightropes
of the disembodied soul
down the transcendental ski slopes
of a spectral bullet hole
and the space around her shivers
taut with fragmentary dreams
lit by dull phantasmal slivers
stitched with surreptitious seams
all at once she takes to mending
disconnected bits of string
tying ending unto ending
in a fragile, filmy ring
o, fatigue doth beckon plainly
countenance and premise fair
in his purpose smiles vainly
saccharine in charm and air
still her weary legs weave quarter
of the most impassive kind
as her airy skeins support her
in the labyrinth she's designed
then at last, her work presented
all is as it should have been
O, the Spider, now contented
walks the tightropes back again
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