spider

the little insects tapping on my skin
do not exist
nor do the Perseids dropping outside
my window
at 3 AM
nor does the three-headed hydra
of headlights on the incoming plane
over Tucson in the bright afternoon
in silence
appear to anyone but me
in my car heading west without my camera

is this what aging is?
the shiver of DNA strands
as they struggle
to keep me alive
sending phantoms to my synapses?

I imagine them
collapsing gently, floating
like the disconnected silks
of the spider's web as I tear it down

death may be the absence
of the waiting spider
standing by to build anew
another perfect web