The Spider Web

A spider’s web on the window slung
Sticky as popsicles on the tongue,
Woven over the moonlit hours.
A widely flattened Eiffel Tower,
Cathedral window of phantom glass
In two dimentions, expertly cast
Studded with frantic compound eyes,
The airy prison of meaty flies,
Fat citizens of intestinal mesh,
Thickly gorged on rotting flesh.
With sleek hydraulics the spider climbs
Its fatal creation—fragile, sublime
Cruelty constructed without lust or sin:
Feral lace flexing in soft summer wind.


Elizabeth Hurst

If you have any thoughts about this poem, Elizabeth Hurst  would like to hear them.