A spider left a shell
at the ceiling, letting
it hang from one leg
awkwardly.
This tattoo studio is cold
even in the summers—never
the reason of shivering—
and has one narrow window,
now showing, merciful TV,
the most delightful
plum blossom,
with bird anchors,
restless sparrows,
switching every hour,
to report the end
of the world.
The dim pulse of the room
emanates from three lamps,
trafficking spiders
from the garden.
On day two of staring
at the dead shell,
I noticed my own skin—
old skin—
hanged in the minds
of those who think
to know me
well.
The spider was likely
back to garden now,
towing a fly's head,
escaping the news.
An hour later,
sewed up by the needle master,
I would be gone
as well.
2019