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April 15, 2008

The enormous orb-weaver Nephila
hangs her old microphone under the eaves
Each touch of life points to her and sings
to her weaving legs like a star’s twinkle-points
Each voice steps up and croons through her diaphragm
She listens to her legs She hears the song
of something delayed its frantic wings sugar-glazed
She moves with her quick lace napkins
and composes a white note concerning a fly

by Allan Peterson

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  1. April 21, 2008 at 1:27 pm

    enjoyed this poem, and the reading.

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