by Amit MajmudarThat spider trekking up the window screen
Has never gripped a grid of cords so clean.
He’s used to weaker webs that need repairs,
Silk rigging the wrong pair of wings can tear.
But this web, window-wide, is laid so fine
It’s almost mesh, craft of some higher mind,
Some master-spider he trespasses on.
Best marvel from the sill and move along.
Some great ascetic he or she must be
To square this endless regularity.
No fly is succulent enough, no bee:
Saliva doesn’t slick the symmetry.
And that somewhat diminishes his wonder—
To know the patterning devoid of hunger.