A slimy web, compacted
in a little stick of flesh
eager, springing out
childhood school
laughter and then crying
on the streets and the apartments
connecting, reaching out
until, stretched across the universe
knotted with the rest
the sun of life sinks into dark velvet
and it falls limp.
What is the shape of it all?
The web of webs,
a net? or a twine ball?
A blight ever spreading its rash
across the skin of the cosmos?
or perhaps a hothouse garden
the tentacle curling in on itself
like the frond of a fern?
All I know is
across the vast expanse
by fortune or luck
our webs have become entangled