In the Corner

The web is in the corner above my door

and I've been seeing it for weeks

without actually seeing it.

This morning I looked.

The threads are coated in dust—

gray on white on gray,

it's hard to tell what's web

and what's just accumulated

failure. There's something caught

in the middle. A fly, maybe.

Maybe just old silk

that's gone hard and dark

from age. I can't tell anymore

what's prey and what's just

the texture of the web

deciding to hold onto itself.

The web's attached where the wall

meets the corner, where

two surfaces give up

and just touch. The spider's

probably dead. Or gone.

Or in there somewhere,

waiting for something to vibrate

the threads, and nothing ever does.

I lie in bed looking at it.

At the small architecture of it.

The way it catches light

when the sun comes through

the window. The dust

has made it visible. Without the dust

it would just be air,

just the idea of threads

holding nothing.

Now it's a monument

to the small things

we don't see until

they've collected enough

evidence of time.