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R o b e r t   P e s i c h

A n   E v e n i n g   C o m m u t e


At home, in my garden, I hear

the giant crushers of the cement factory

begin their nocturnal roar.


A crimson spider, smaller than a dewdrop,

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.

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