Spider's Web
Who is it who sits there
in the middle, spinning?
Grandmother spider, attaching one thread to the pillar of each Direction:
the cosmic barn roof, walls ‘n floors
and weaving her weft through every spec of nano-space, particle and vibration.
Nothing called vacuum,
no thing is nothing.
Remove the stuffing so all that’s left
is a handful of dust, a wad of clay:
the essential bits of bone, stone, structure and phenomena
- minas the gaps between.
Her fabric is infinitely stretchy
reaching ever corner and nook;
it is scrupulously seamless,
immaculately stitched and fixed
including the wild wastes
beyond, below and outside;
leaving no chink or wisp of Else
or Other.
It is all-inclusive, consummate,
intrinsic and immanent
so grammar and tense are left gawping, soundless.
The ouroboros of Intelligent Mind
needs devour itself.
Despite any Bang of creation or annihilation
find the Spider couched in her lair
still reeling her eternal web.
Mar