Peter Chapman Poetry

backlit spider

so well, you spin your net early in the sun
your dim sight on pods going this way, that,
legs never worried, in my window, high above the lake

in the night i miss you, i hope you're happy
i miss the warm smoothness of your thighs,
your breasts' loose soft-nippled slump

how could the spider quit the world?
how could you leave me? 
questions for another time, a rhyme
set in stickiness, passing for the light