I read that the air is filled with
spiders, wispy legs in the breeze. I inhale
arachnids and when the house smells of rotting
mouse I take that in too and even though
we lose cells every day, are new
matter every year I wonder if the burning
oil and brewing hops I sucked in
on car rides as a child when I couldn’t hold
my breath any longer on the Schuylkill
Expressway are still in me and the spiders
get drunk and warm all their hands
around a barrel, my body a world,
rusted and grubby, throwing forth
a little warmth to stand by.
