What God and Man Are

Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem

Not blossoms in the crevice of a wall,

Not spread of leaves or stems to hold blooms out,

Not promise of some soil for root and all . . .

Instead a spider crouches full of pout

Of greed against live wings.  This spider waits

In stillness, still as death itself.  Her goal

Is death through life, she pregnant with the hates

Of eggs she loves.  This scene is God’s webbed whole

Creation written small and taller while

She grips her stone-hole spot evoking in

Her mind, miniscule mind, the future, vile

With fangs and sucking—silk arachnid sin.

  Her sin is normal so it isn’t wrong.

    Her maker is the macrocosm, strong.