down in the back yard
in the rising sun
on the iron
chair
next to the black iron
table,
i apologize to the spiders
who scramble
at my noise.
i use
an arm
and a magazine
to unstring
their hard work.
unraveling
the gossamer threads.
how busy they've been
all night
into the morning,
with their webs.
i'm sorry, i tell them.
i truly am, then sit.
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