On Fridays, we feel lazy
and dynamic at the same time
like the spiders
scuttling outside
in blue garden shade,
flurries of legs, myriad
prism-eyed,
constructing,
per some strange
outer-space compulsion,
such wondrously
pacific works of gossamer lattice—
the more effortlessly
luxuriant,
the better
to stick
and hang and suck the tortured
blood of
other, only slightly
less-industrious pests.
