How many spiders can you fit on a pin? The tsunami
took the angels out ages ago and now we have them,
wasps, coquis and us. There are two spots of light, bright
spiders, smaller than dust on the tomato plant grown
from seed, each red fruit bottom-rot, no matter
how I water it. Now there are four, no five, they rise
on the wave of a breeze, their webs new and quivering.
They cross and lift, flying the invisible line of themselves.
How are there enough insects to share? The wasps hump
our dinner meat like it’s the best lay of their life. The coquis
scream at night in their densely populated cities: yelling
for pleasure or loneliness, not understanding that the space
is shared. But the spiders are everywhere, in every space
until we, the humans, covered in bright welts die off,
and everything else survives.