It’s the season.
Twenty feet up on a cold wet ladder, twisting and cursing
the air-hose wrapped around his leg, the warped plywood
wobbling in one hand, and the nail-gun in the other,
a framer meets a weaver.
A. diadematus, ubiquitous spider this time of year,
marked like some medieval illumination –
the kind done in brown ink on parchment,
with stiff figures in the borders, white hands, white faces,
fall’s mappa mundi in miniature – suspended between the studs
no longer, masterpiece in shreds, rappelling in reverse
back up the safety line like it’s all in a day’s work,
just take a deep breath,
people fall off the roof all the time.
The Moth's Return 