i wish i could tell him
that i trust him--
(the spider on the ceiling
of my room)

i don't really know
what i mean by "trust" just
that i feel like he's reliable--

a friend--

his body a handful of apostrophes--

light & timid as eye lashes--

blinking him into existence--

he owns nothing (i assume)

no book shelves or pocket watches--
no address for me to mail him a letter--

should i wave?

(i don't want to startle him)

does he read poems over
my shoulder maybe wishing i would 
turn back the page so he could see again
that line about how

we were in love like august--

does he read the love
as human or does he think
of his mother--

her needle-leg silhouette
written in the window frame--

he built his web in the far corner
above my desk--

a gentle chandelier--

crystals dangling from his eyes-- 

i wonder if he pays attention
to my routines--

maybe he finds comfort in 
my compulsions--

hum of the microwave at 11:30pm
the soft yellow light of the machine--

he imagines it's sun in a box--
turning-- 

encapsulated dawn--

he wakes to the crinkle 
of granola wrapper

as i sit wiping crumbs 
from my mouth 

right before i tie my green 
shoe laces
to run 4 miles-- away from
the threat of our bodies--

does he wait for me to return
or does he expect it?

does he trust me like i trust him?

does he notice me
glancing up?

i sometimes think he might fall--
descend on a strand of silky web

does he wonder what my skin feels like?

maybe laying awake
cradled in white threads-- watching
me breath as i sleep--

considering crawling down my throat--

becoming flesh & muscles--

does he wish the love
poem was about him

& as he sways-- light 
& feather boned?

does he consider leaving?

maybe thinking to himself
that i would even notice--

knitting in the dim glow
of lamps from the parking
lot out back--

dreaming of augusts 
& human love