Spiders

document every moment obsessively
if only to kill and stuff these golden times
to press with pins, anesthetized until still

chronicled and counted against time spent ill
or escaped in a too big drunk
or gone unmeasured in countless mason jars
poured up the stairs frantic and justifiably so

up ladders folding back in their ascension
to join ghosts kept like bugs crucified
in dusty cobwebs twitching out of habit

gone like the glow from where you stood
in the one and one silvering vampirism
burning the mist through to some other pool
where everything must be so easy