They look like spiders on the keyboard, big, fleshy spiders.
Tiny hairs grow from the folds of skin, alert to sight and sound.
Released from the corner of sleep, my hands begin to type.
Drowsily, they recall where all the letters live,
vowels and consonants, food for the day.
Spider-blood begins to flow; they are hungry.
As they consume, a silk is produced.
Strong threads of meaning, capable of life and death.
Spins of attraction from deep inside the belly.
The spiders remember their mandate.
"You don't bait what you love.
You tempt it, lure it, get under its skin."