Sudden silk
lightly engulfs a face
engulfed in darkness,
known, even absent light,
what is transpiring.
Horrific strands
rapidly ripped away,
seconds like an eternity,
a fearful question inspired:
Where’s it at?
Sometimes, I think
maybe it’s an inside joke
among arachnids,
leaving webs hanging
in attics and basements,
snickering whenever
humans run into them,
playing on a tradition of fear
stretching back to some chick
eating
her
curds and whey.
