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An Evening Commute

At home, in my garden, I hear

the giant crushers of the cement factory

begin their nocturnal roar.

A crimson spider, smaller than a dew drop

casts her towline from a flaming rose

to my face, almost as good as a leaf.

I watch her cross the chasm.

She wanders in my hair.

Her shimmering line billows

holding me briefly to the blossom.

© Robert S. Pesich, all rights reserved.

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