A spider never sees its web.
Not really. Not as we see it.
The delicate geometry of it —
The implications. There’s
No real cunning, is there? No
Stratagem. Every inch of
Every thread a spider spins
Is coded in, fashioned
Down the palimpsest of
Geologic time.
Poem by Bob Brussack
Bob Brussack has retired after a career teaching law at the University of Georgia in Athens. Like other Athens poets, he was encouraged to read and to listen and to write by the late Aralee Strange, who founded “Athens Word of Mouth,” the monthly open poetry reading upstairs at the Globe. His work has appeared in the Black Coffee Review, the Naugatuck River Review, the Passager Journal, the Roanoke Review, the Tishman Review, and other publications.