I can see them in the imaginarium of my mind.Their thin black legs spread out like a hand.
Sometimes thick, dark.
Impossibly long-legged. Sharp.
In old spaces. In melancholic rooms disused by time.
I see them sometimes. Outside.
On windows and porches.
I see them in gardens,
hanging on invisible bridges between plants.
I see them on palms of brave hands.
I see them one, two, three climbing
spiders in a song.
I see them too menacing for lullaby.