Navigating on roller-skates in the dark, I understand:
the country around me vibrates.
The spider’s mute web
reflects an equilateral slumber. Both Satan
and a cobra next to him would seem pusillanimous, two schlimazels.
On the other side of the glass, the spider is quieter
          than my phone in Basel.

Let us start from the center: the posse had flown to bits — shoo, blia! —,
          but he was still crawling around.
An echo of Moscow and the anchorite of my skull.
Eternal birthday-boy, he rented the sectored auditorium,
by which he made clear he is no little rascal.
Impunitous commas in a vortex,
And — a hook to your solar plexus.

His refusing perfection, like a knife-edge along the glass.
O young pioneer, abduce your binoculars!
The spider does not ask for inclusion at the table.
He is frightened, as if to his jugular
          somebody held a circular.
He has chosen transparency, reproducing nightmares.
He is fishing for dreams.
His web will spring into action later.

The shadow from a ribbed decanter on a tablecloth with flies —
and again — he, exchanging the Muses for flies.
Well-provided with rumors,
scraggy athletic spirit,
he locked himself up between the lines,
the spider.

Let us start from the center. From the autonomous silence.
The spider is held like an asterisk by the nervous system.
His will’s ball lightning and forks are condensed together
in an eternal stop, making rumble
his suit of armor.
A scratched zero, my spider, is your someone.

A scratched zero, a window of a falling Boeing,
where men chewed on the glass but reached not.
The grate-like lopsided patter that yields God —
that’s you. And time, like a necklace on a prattler,
shifts from foot to foot, indulging (in what?)... They’ve coincided,
the forces of your able touches.
Spider, sleep, Vesuvius.

Let us start from the center. You’ve grown up to the nucleus of Selena,
weaving the algebraic baskets of non-being,
amore mio, colore verde.
King of the center,
wrapping a fly up in dun saliva,
restoring the casting to slumber.

My spider, my shepherd of deaths.
Drooler, thrown about the universe.
It is for you to spin
yourself, become the bull of common
ire and decisiveness, my former friend,
sicced onto suddenness.