Spider by Chris D’Errico

Tonight the late sky is whiskey-colored.
This is the desert
where weird things happen. That streetlight
could be a paranormal orb.
That plastic grey shopping cart abandoned
under that fifty foot Mexican
palm tree might not have been abandoned
but left there
on purpose. That drainage ditch to the right
of that crumbling
levee might contain clues to a mystery—
what fell
from the heavens landed in this dry place
where seeds struggle.
By morning the weather will be a statistic
we must live with.
See the spider already dead in that web
by the mailbox—we
could meet there barefoot and caffeinated
as a protest against
vacuity. I’d look you straight in the eye.
Our faces white
as fjords, I’d tell you: in jaws of speculation
we carry everything
ungrounded, up for grabs.

Chris D'Errico

Chris D’Errico has worked as a short order cook, a doorman, a neon sign-maker’s helper, and an exterminator, among other vocational adventures. Born in Worcester, Massachusetts, he lives in Las Vegas, Nevada, where he writes and makes music. For more, visit http://www.clderrico.com

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