The Spider

                                    Uncommitted to earth or heaven,

                                                between them dangled,

                                                            spangled by sun and dew light,

                                                                        caught up and riven,

                                                            by each draft, by each summer shower,

                                                his self-spun lair

                                                where he does his intricate walking,

                        builds up in hours

            a hunt house, a storehouse, for leisure;

a concentric grid

            rid of all focus save skylight,

                        earth's middle way, first

                                    borrowing designs of navels

                                                from flesh to air,

                                                                          and there sets as a sort of radar,

                                                                  thermometer, level

                                                            to report how the round earth turns.

                                                It is his home:

                        momentary, a launch point,

             a landing place between journeys,

a goal deep traced

                        in nerve endings by constant practice:

                                                            elastic,

                                                he casts himself

                                    and spins:

                                                space walker

                                                            he hangs in space.