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The night comes with a chill not on but in
my skin—A spider web at the end of
summer stretches in the wind. Decayed dock
swaying with my weight sways and sways. Water
spiders molest a fallen fly whose wings
have trapped it there wet lifting itself up
but not out—The spiders skating in and
out are biting it with small bites that make
me think of pain and hate and spite and life
of health and money to pay for it and
even Afghanistan and Iraq then
a bass comes in a splash—Splash!—swallowing
all of it. All that’s left is rippling in
continual circles that keeps spreading.

Drawings by Akram

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