Matrix by John Grey

Spider crawls across the ceiling
lit golden by fading sun,
alchemy on eight legs.
traversing its upside-down world.

It ignores my eyes’ silent threat,
an abdomen, a cephalothorax,
in league with its own survival.

For high in the rafters, dangle threads
fine enough to make silk jealous,
to grab, entangle, passing prey.

The spider slips into its matrix core,
sends shudders through
all levels of a slick-spun orb.

From any angle,
the web is barely there
but fiercely in place.
How close to invisible
comes visible life.