The Arachnid Letters

In the evening
I rescue a spider
clenched like a socket
on the teeth
of my keyboard.

Later, I dream of eggs.

I plot them in glass boxes,
their pure round
labor in the forced square.
I experience guilt.

O the yellow stain of it
borders on the absurd.
Yet, I swallow it in
like sour lemonade,

like raw eggs,
like a spider.