Its miniature nest looking disheveled

pieces of dirt, dust, stuck to leaves, she

her black stiletto heels dance

stabbing the bleak air in hot corners of

a back shed or garage, wood pile,

her inky eyes each a dot and her red underside

viewing out, the unsuspecting beetle or

bleached bug tortuously stammering

across the minute wood chips the

powdered sand, almost no light here she

notices by feel, the littlest thing

in the vapors of her web, not seeing

through the ebbed slant rays of a falling sun

threading its thin way across a floor, or crumbs

edged needle sharps containing the ladyís poison

hurts the tiniest bit as itís anesthetized

and ruined from within.