Hour Twelve

A Poem about A Spider, That Doesn’t Rhyme

Oh, long ago spider

The one that bit my finger while I tidied the garden

A thousand miles from here

I never even saw you

And you must have died over twenty years hence

And yet your venom lingers

Cold in the flesh, numb in the skin

Stiff in the knuckle

I don’t know what color you were

I don’t even know if you were tiny or huge

Or somewhere in between.

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