Busia’s fly at least bit you
when she tickled your ribs, her fingers
crawling past your sternum, to dance
under your chin, your delight
feigned as surprise or disgust,
begging “do it again”
until she told you the golumpki
wouldn’t roll itself.
as you spend the day mulling,
the day spends itself without you.
navel gazer, lint-spinner, snooze slayer –
carpe something, lest you circle,
mindless in your windowed cell,
sun filtered through glass and fronds,
blind to the takings
you’ve relished so long.
did you know, my love,
that while spiders spin seven
kinds of silk, only the cribellates comb
their multi-stranded sticky leavings
until wooly enough to catch hairy fly legs
then hide, watching their webs bounce
with the struggles of prey
who never fail to answer?