The spider –
visiting from our noisy neighbors –
spindled along our
CDs and DVDs,
not discerning
if she lingered
over a Criterion
or my boyfriend’s copy of The Wolfman.

The sun
filtered through the blinds
and she scurried
behind Kieslowski
lest she
blanche
in the light
like Gloria Desmond
next to
a screen
on which her younger self
seduces her prey.