Isn't that tiny poem about spiders?
And I'm going to tell you the secret about this poem, which
is that, it's not about spiders, it's about poets.
It's just called Spiders.
The eight-legged aerialists of the tented dawn
are up and about.
One leaves a pale orchid, its exoskeleton on a twig
while another fly casts against the wind,
angling for the leaf where it would sooner be.
The silk hardens and it crosses tiptoe,
the tiny span eager to turn mummies from winged crisp
to liquid caramel.
They dote on the tang of quarry, however,
they nab it with trap door or purse web or keen jagged fangs
holding out for that bronchial shudder of the net
when something angel-faint, ensnared and hairy,
begins the tussle in rigged silk that can start a greedy eye,
make gossamer hum, and at long last, even their slack jams
quiver.
It's really a very nasty little poem.