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Between the outside and inside panes,
the spider spins up the bug. Child like,
and still wanting more death,
we can’t stop studying the rhythm of the legs.
They needle, like love, a sac around the body,
weaving it round and round the frame.
But a steady pulse of green emits freely still
from what must have been its mind—
slowing with every flash and less predictable,
the beginning seems nearly complete.