Half-Spun Web

A table with a white-bellied orchid

Leans against a black stick holding it up from treacherous gravity.

Vines, sparce plants reveal through the large windows

The neighbor’s across the street – a form – a white nightgown

Turning its back to the light.

Sliced, cantaloupes – flesh open

Like a bleeding animal

On clean China plates.

Twine, woven looms

Lay open like a creation -

A web half-spun

So they may talk, eat into the sweet flesh

And contemplate

The being

Woven with colorful string

By the twine, the hooks and the long,

Wound string – the paint, the ochre

And canvas to create it on.