I wrote a poem for you 
		        but left it on the sink
in that Best Western (it was missing

only five words or a title),
I was watching a spider
build its web (it was frightening
as I lay motionless
on the cool tiles and watched
dark shadows become
silent and retreat in the fury

of morning) above the slow highways
where rain crept across
the floor in-between
strands of silk.

It was an angel conspiring
to build a palace
where the streams have not run
dry or faded slowly into the night
reflecting summer’s red
sun (it was 84 and moist,
claiming difference while condensation
on the inside of my window

revealed a rainbow
in the headlights passing by).
The spider watched me

as I wrote
your song, defining creation
in his existence,
                  how it followed
the same path and answered
to the same voice
singing of phosphates,
carbon, and water
                  combining by chance,
walking away from the words
because sometimes they can’t.

Next Stop>